My Wednesday Night Room

       Half burned candles. Herbal scented smoke rising from the hollowed peach bone. Green glowing numbers in a three dimensional space where time hangs out, dripping wax from above the marbled wooden structure.
       Think he's a strange hermit-like weirdo who likes to pass time in that comfortable chair? Time left a stitch in his mind. Breaking through to that space that's so hard to find.
       The red burning candle on the seashell. Long red liquid, so thick, frozen but not cold, over an empty bottle of white wine.
       A long hand-carved walking stick leaning against the wall; handle carved of tree. Wooden-like cane, will you hold me today or will you break and allow me to fall?
      And what's with the rain stick and that Indian peace pipe?
       The beautiful painting of a Native American girl, feathers in her long black hair, high cheekbones; highlight tones pink and red. The beauty in her painted grace.
       On a bass speaker sits a book of meditation. For he will learn to play the bass after he's done meditating but before he goes away. When he goes to play in the forest with his silent friends.
       Visions float all through the brain, of horses and wolves, owls and mice, seagulls above a vast gray sea, daisies and dandelions, roses and dead, and that eternal empty in the head.
       There is a cabinet of books. A library of eternal souls; where there lives Poe, Hemingway, Williams, Machiavelli and Dante one shelf below. Shakespeare is everywhere; Thoreau so powerfully brilliant through subtlety. Poets still alive in their words, forever in time.
       Are there daisies in that bottle of wine? A sip of champagne between the long-haired man and the beautiful friend in one thousand shades? Will he every come to seize that day. At least he may pray, if there's only today.
       The warrior's sword, a silver chain wrapped around its sheath, with that yin-yang pendant dangling. The Japanese sword left behind by that old Englishman friend of mine.
       Someday, maybe faraway ... the long-haired old man is calling in the distance. Is he just a mental illusion or possibly an optical delusion?
       Radio plays a song with lyrics taken to soul and heart; with feeling and emotion most could never understand. The song is named "Black".
       ... and there sits the boy. Alone. Long lock of hair tied to a feather with beads, hanging on the east wall. Regardless of where the spirit in the tress of hair has gone, regardless of where his spirit is tomorrow, his soul is held eternal in the words on the page ...
       Forever today.