The Daily Belle

“Not all who wander are lost.” said the man, his back against the wall, accompanied by a large pack sitting next to him which also served as his only table companion. The Pub went silent. The room  turned and faced the man. His hair was a shaggy brown that curled at the tips and hovered above tempting green eyes, and his skinny pink lips sat  crooked  on his face in a smirk that featured his dimples. His look encouraged the men about him to counter his statement. The green-eyed traveler fingered the glass of amber ale in front of him, concentrating on the swirling liquid inside. The silence had left the room feeling stagnant and overly warm until a rosy man with cheeks scarlet from drinking began to laugh, jostling his own glass and spilling the liquid on the table. The green-eyed traveler began to laugh as well and soon  the  room flamed and roared with a boisterous laughter. “Where are you from laddy?” slurred a man with a thick Irish accent. “I’m from New Zealand.” the traveler

I have come to the conclusion that I am a pacer  Crafting carefully worded thoughts And following up with how these thoughts look Or at least how they make me look. Plastered on an imaginary wall with a plastic shield  So that when that inevitable feeling of regret comes And I want to take my -once private- thought down  My hands are incapable.  My cuffs are plastic  With the exception of a keyhole,  That’s just missing. 

How funny are these vines of Ivy Who linger on this wall Basking in silence Praying not to fall They cling and wrap themselves quite tight To make a leafy green house right nice The house itself is old The age my gosh Who knows But it’s made of brick and stone So the vines have something to hold As time goes by And the world grows cold The vine will have the stone And in my right nice home I will have you to hold