By Henri Whitehead

Gatsby believed in the green light.
And for much of my twenties,
I searched for that same sweet signal
That calls to us all when we parade
through social media, announcing  success of life,
But in secret reunions with our consciences,
We know that light was never really found,
And will still elude us  forever on the morrow

My own search for that orgastic future,
was just aimless walking of Missouri roads,
Listening only to the directions of others,
My own eyes held tightly closed
For fear of that inescapable possibility that
No light, no future, actually existed
On top of those long horizon hills in the distance.

Then at those final waning steps of
the decade long trudge through my twenties
I breathed in your fresh, captivating scent
And opened my eyes to the bright flower,
With blond hair and brilliant smile
Born during April’s most honeyed rain.
Petals amongst pebbles
Golden against grey,
The apotheosis of my mortal journey.

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