by Darryl Price

I'm dying but that's not

to say what you think

it says. I've crossed the

river of myself many, many times

before and wandered to the


shore, broken and drenched and

full of the fever of

dreams. Each time was a

kind of ritual drying of

my newly born wings, to


try again to fly, some

people never want to fly

I guess. They have no

use for wings, but why

do you think we have


them? They mean something. I

think it has to do

with purpose and by that

I mean with meaning and

by that I mean being,


being free, being unencumbered, being

creative in the air we

breathe. I don't know. It

sounds silly, but you know

words don't know everything. Sometimes


I wish I could speak

in moments of wind or

through the mouths of leaves

or in the tiniest colors

inside the arms of a


flower. Instead I rustle in

my clothes and bang on

the door with my loud thought patterns,

but nothing much seems to

happen, except every now and


then I catch a glimpse

of myself reflected in the

trees or maybe the stars

and I think maybe it

will be alright to be


something else. But here is

dear to me, too. It's

where I've discovered so many

beautiful faces and touched part

of the world that amazes


me. Anyway I'm aware, okay,

I get it, but I

don't think it's all that

sad. I mean ring a

bell if it makes you


feel  any better. I'm here

to tell you I'll be

busy bringing music home with all of my good

friends. Because I can. Because

I do. Your secret adventurer.