Living thru the white scenes

Who can walk upon Earth and don't feel the presence of a mystical place.

A constant presence of someone who's not there, but even so, is always there, carrying on, standing still, smiling and crying, and dreaming and feeling captived and free.

"Dream, and be free in your soul. Fight, and be free in your life."

In this life, we're all dreamers.

And fighters.

But it's never done, until we call someone "friend".

The light that is brighter than anyone.

Faithfully, like the sunset.

In a land of trees, and gree, and gray, and bricks, where's the brink of our own being?

In a mystical place?

Or under the moon?

And when we shake hands with our victories and challenges,

We don't turn our faces to the moment we're living,

We face each moment, either it's black and white, or it's our eyes that see and sight no color or reason or right,




And we tread upon this way, with the flowers by our side, and certain of nothing, but sure enough of being here, and standing still, and dreaming, and fighting, and living thru the white scenes of a stage called life.

To my infinite dearest friend, whose dreams are a part of mine, and whose life's the same path.

Thinking of you, thru my heart and soul.