Byline: Graveyard Gambit

Buford Youthward

I'm making letters out of sandpaper, hitting the shed and getting my chops on.

Hyped up with hyper texture my laminates glow. There are no silver screen stars of dreams, nothing to be seen.

Sketching scenes on black paper with white and purple sticks makes some kids want to go.

But what do I know.

A style that conforms to nature's perfection provides emotional reward. Sometimes passive on logic, vulnerable to emotion. A charisma cooled.

These gambits in the graveyard have no time line. Moments we cast but can barely control become our definitions.

All that matters is the anti-matter. Everything else is for fools chasing gold.

Sometimes I know.

And that's what keeps you going. Keeps the routine clean and swept in the divinity of the moment, counting all the majesty in the things that matter.

Graffiti hounds get down catch their break downs, scribe out with cellophane hooks as transparent as jello.

You and I both know when it's time to go. We show up clean in or out of the shadows forced upon us.

The due course of nature, karma rests its wheel against my stone.

You and I, we both show up. Because.

We know.

We know.

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