[Scar]

I went a few lines over, with Universe's permission.

"Oh the places we'll go..." - Universe



“A Light Story”

The street, paved with cobblestones and songs of olden,
cracked a facetious smile .. with every yard or so and
the bars, engrossed in Walker scotch and odes of
“man vs foe” lores lacking in a proper denouement
rests conveniently on the corner of “Colter” and “Fulton”
Wasn’t his crowd, he continued down to “Thoughts Unspoken”

***
A quiet, broad and broken road where ghosts and shadows are courted
“Its where my best ideas are forged” sometimes he’d ramble ‘til morning
Up ahead, along the bend, a glint, gradually forming
into a globule, he walked a few steps as darkness casts off a warning
The path contorted to the ongoing ebb and its flow.
Dusk has a scent; So relaxin’ against that ominous glow
It was odd. He’s sure he’s walked a few hundred yards at the most
But it appears to be of same distance it was, just moments ago...

***

He stopped, suddenly, and studied the space around him
Shrouded in darkness, completely void of shapes and sounds
“Is this death?” His gaze, bound to that light in the distance
A million questions and counting, if God and time still existed
“What is this?” “What isn’t it?” It was loud in admission
That light source somehow granted him the power and vision
To Pre-exist and re-exist - every hour and minute
He was all-time all the time. Totality tilt to his whims
“Can I count on you?” that voice again. With a whisk of the wind...

*woooosh*

The noise of Spring. strolling the antiquated avenue,
he sees a clinic poster pleading how “You can help fight cancer too!”
A valiant pursuit, with a little girl’s portrait serving as the voice of sickness
A couple shops down, a vintage toy store full of boyhood wishes
Star Wars memorabilia, Luke, Han, Star Destroyer stickers
He enjoyed the brisk walk; The ambiance and all the stories with it
across the street, a middle-aged couple engaged in dinner for two
Some kind of fish dish at a sickly overstated avenue
Pretentious decor; Dancing pyre professing “classy” perfection
The gentleman wore a pale face with eyes of glassy inflection
Next door, a book shop. Used properties as pages were fold
Front and center, an aging relic, Virginia’s “Room of One's Own”
By his feet, a newspaper rustle and flap to the placid spring wind
The Headline: Man obsessed with sister, held for psychiatric remission

**Another woooosh**

“Can I count on you .. to write me into existence?” Again, that voice. Those visions.
Before him was the light source. It hung in oblivion
Radiating painful pulses within a wall of obsidian
It kept pulsating and flashing; The pain was taxing
His body, chain reacting to it all, 'til all faded to black.

***

"Ouch!" The hard linoleum caught him off guard
He looked up only to see the lamplight mocking his fall
All around him was darkness, he rubbed on his jaw
“Must’ve fallen asleep”. Adjusting his hinge, he looked to the clock on the wall:
2:30 AM.

Arm, sore, he reached for his pad and his pen,
that was specially engraved as a gift from dad when he left:
“To The Best Son Ever, My Lad Colter Fulton”
Opens his notepad, that he aptly named “Thoughts Unspoken”
Soaking in the dream he had, “I think I got an opener..”
He stares at the lamp. It stares back. With a smile, he began…
“The street, paved with cobblestones and songs of olden,"