gren

The swirl of my fan goes on like the swish of the drums of my favorite jazz song. Children laughing, playing in the courtyard with innocence I’ve since long lost and forgotten. Recognizance, wise beyond years, like me, I wonder if they know, or even care of the struggle that is coming, impending nights and days of work and toiling, ADULTHOOD. Sweating beads of memories past I wonder… what will become of me? I’ve strayed so far off my path but stayed so focused. How is this possible? Like a rythym I shuffle back…to the beat, the jungle, to me. My impulses so raw. I close my eyes, tilt my head all the way back, inhale the incensed air in…And play the black and white with these black and white hands. A masterpiece has found her way home.