People died fighting for a freedom
that is now locked up in a dusty bottle in an antique shop

At night someone tells stories about battles they didn’t fight,
keeping others from fighting theirs

Retirees sitting on easy chairs
read the news with disgust in their eyes

Somewhere is an ancient battle gun, now mute
surrounded by mute wooden benches for chatty tourists

Freedom, such a blackhole of a word
pulls in everybody and everything in its meaning

What happens to career freedom fighters
on Independence day? Do they retire?

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Clouds must want to gossip too
They see too much to not want to tell

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Who are you?

I, my dear, am the Last Airbender.

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Standing there alone
hand in hand
feet in the salton sea

we watched the clouds
lay bare its secrets
to a sea gushing with mischief

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Can closeness be felt in thoughts alone
Or is a presence of some kind required

A voice, a handwritten letter, a touch
or a whiff of a once familiar perfume

Left to itself, how does it age
What are its top, middle and base notes

But some thoughts never seem to die
Even of those who have

Like a stubborn knot
tying strings together

memories hold
two existences locked

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