Hope – The Stories In Between

Of Prophets and Rivers

I sat with an old man on a weathered bench near the bank of a section of river most don’t come to anymore. He welcomed

So much dropped Along the way Dreams Too heavy to carry Weigh us down In every attempt To move forward Till one day We wake

One spark, of many To catch the kindling Barely smoldering I hold it In the palm of My hand Do I remember How to do

The clock rolls on, it’s 3 a.m. Wondering What am I doing here Through flickering light And another cigarette Alone, again I search for words

My little girl pleaded for me not to go. That was the hardest moment of my life, looking down at those big blue teary eyes,

I have seen an old woman Sitting in a rocking chair The warmth of the desert sun Shining on her through the front window Surrounded

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