What my thoughts are of, A poem

What my Thoughts are of
By: Ryan Beodeker

I sat down one evening and figured I'd take down my thoughts. First reaction then was to turn off the light. For deep thought, solitude of somewhat darkness. I sit alone in the dimly lit room with myself; searching the inner depths of my own mind.


I wonder what we'll find here together as we venture onwards. A whole plethora of memories makes up the conscious thoughts of my tired form. We could roam into my childhood. I see the backyard football, I see the days in the forest, I see lush dark greens, smiles in sun-filled days. But better perhaps to avoid the past entirely. Nostalgic always borderlines on depressed disjunct feelings of remorse for those long gone days.

But tonight we shall go high into the clouds. We grab a branch and climb the great Climbing Tree. It's greyish bark is a smooth cold that reminds of home. Hopping from branch to branch, we climb higher and higher. The birds are floating below our feet. We, the majesties of our own designs, controllers of harmony and discord, reach the tip-top peak of the warm old tree. The castle up high just ahead of us.

We shall journey into the kingdom of my thoughts. From there on, not even I the tinker of words and letters can know for certain where we shall go. But maybe, perhaps, we'll go to the sea.

The ship is mine. The beautiful sailboat of my future. It's manila sails are crisp and the wood is a dark brown. She, the boat, is a grand old ship modeled after some distant time. It has the flavor of pirates. Ocean waves lap at the hull and a frothy foam begins to top the blue-green waters. We, the ship's crew stay dead-silent still; the wind has stopped. An eerie calm has taken hold. Water's never still. 

Awake on an island some much time later. Time surely now has passed. We have come so far and yet nothing said. Stranded on the island of the uninhabited sub-conscious of my mind's own design. Unable to reach the ever unattainable thoughts of my mind. My beard turns to white. My hands wrinkle with age. The years go by as mere days past by; we are trapped without release.

Dream on the promise of self-realization. Hope on the day when thoughts are discussed. The honor, bestowed. Memories, given. Letters to words to sentences to lines to stanzas to pages to books to volumes to anthologies to best works of; that's what most of my thoughts are of, just the short all of the above. 

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 Narration
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qfGW6kPFJUA&feature=plcp