It was hidden.
Entangled in brush and weeds,
Swaying ever so slightly in the breeze.
If you listened intently, you could hear it:
A whisper between whispers,
Short stammers being stuttered.
Your heart fluttered
And couldn’t bear it,
Not realizing how you crept near it.
The one, the less than tenable,
The Diablo Venerable,
Who never quite says quit,
Quiet:  it won’t permit.
The closest it comes to quiet and peace,
Is a whisper and a murmur,
But plural (won’t cease).
Entangled? So?  It matters not.
Sometimes the breeze feels good.
Sometimes the breeze feels right.
Sometimes the breeze feels darker than night.
The Diablo Venerable
Is not allowed its likes?
Guilty by association,
While entangled with this fascination,
Just like it amongst the weeds…
…swaying slightly in the breeze.
Sway enough to lull to sleep,
Goodbye reservations, ta-ta counted sheep,
Farewell to the neurons that diffused your esteem.
Soon you’ll be hidden.
Entangled in brush and weeds,
Sickeningly stoic, lost in the breeze.
Not listening intently,
Those days have passed,
The Diablo Venerable
Still stands steadfast.

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The End of the Show

By and…Gone.

Shadows of Things to Stay