Katie write

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Katie write

Painted words are what the writer understand.

Wisp and grasps of sweet dreams are the last myth of emotions for love and words.

Dead writer in the Winter of his life. He write with a tamed pen.
His imprisoned heart need to remember the appetite for sweet kisses, new places and embrace.
He search for vigorous words to revive  want and need dismissed and gone.

He told the beautiful writer. Don’t mourn for dead things. Live things have possibilities.
Death-bed wishes are for things not said or done.

Katie write. You can’t live for words only. Words are just words. You need to feel alive.
You need to yell and scream I’m not done.

I told her. Imprison love must be free and not caged. Given whole heartily and without boundaries.
The tomb of dead love are just doors and walls holding nothing in. Dead love is nomadic.
Emotion waiting for reasons to become dormant and asleep forever.

Katie write with a sad pen. You have many things to live for. Your Grandsons near and many things
to live for.

I told her. I have found a safe place. Books and words don’t break my heart. I need sweet words of
gratitude written on paper leaving distance and safety. Love is for the lovers. The dullness of appetite
is acceptable. I like when the Poet paints  visions of erotic dances, beautiful places and of
great journey. Old men find peace in sorrow, joy and some sort of peace.

Katie gave me silence. Young strong hearts and  minds don’t understand the people who had
learn to accept less.  Old writers write of untamed days and lovers, of boundless love and a thousand
kisses shared. Blind fortune in love allowed us to know. We have danced by the light of the kind moon.
We had grasp the lullabies of beautiful woman and long nights.

I told my sweet dream.
“Love me little, love me long.”

Coyote/John Castellenas