Toll booth

Print your words upon the landscape,
Hear your breath beneath the stars,
Feel the touch with mouth agape,
Though none of it is ours.
We cannot own what no one sells,
Neither can we reap the rewards,
We each and all have personal hells,
We either run from life or towards.
Else we sit still and hear and see,
What has been there from the start,
We become what we’re meant to be,
And, in turn, better play our part.

Part of something more than ego or pride,
Beyond acclaim, or riches, or feigning power,
Above accumulation of things outside,
And consumption that self devours.
Feeling our breath upon the stars,
Part of whole measuring the depth of soul,
Seizing each moment given as ours,
Before time takes its final toll.


Being heard, stirred, and perhaps cured by life's many hidden images and the written-spoken word.
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