To: Miss Lady

To: Miss Lady

Miss Lady,
When far away on these nights, it seems, lately, we are expected to walk the line of some illusion.
And I am expected to sing to souls
And you are expected to grow to grandness
And The Rest are there to keep score of our stumbles.

But I remember summers made by sprinting in rain storms and challenging the men-children with no hearts, till we sang “City ‘O’ City” and were happy and full on love and life and Pot De Creme.

Miss Lady,
These days, when far away, it seems we are expected to walk the line of some illusion
And I am expected to sing to souls
And you are expected to grow to grandness
And The Rest are there to keep score of our stumbles.

But I remember pretty lights made by full moons and rocks painted red. And even the Divine-ness that is Adonai, found new rooms in the mansions of our hearts, that summer.

Miss Lady,
It may seem these days we are expected to walk some line of illusion
But just like a rainbow that illusion will fade and vanish and all we will be left with is us..

And when left with only us, I will know:
That my heart has chosen to sing to souls
And you always have been and always will be grandness, no matter where your self resides at the moment.

And The Rest can go on stumbling, because they were to busy keeping score.

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