A poem born of conscious streaming.
There are malicious men of mud; ruddy
And they are steadily running to bind you with their bedtime stories
and fables
Dizzying women with their false axioms
They lay hold of you by the heart strings and bruised ankles
With their wet soil slick and dirty plans
Thick and treacherous and impossible
And muddied hands
The diametrical, and as such reasonably remarkable?
Is this truth that on its own merit stands
That there is love too waiting to hold you
A love that can iron away the dog eared pages of your book
Replace the jewel that carelessly they took
And although you run with feet shod with several holes
In the soles of your self esteem
Carry on without a word, a noted gesture or look
For love, it itself will come at you from many angles
A perfect scene of things not being as they appear;
What they seem
For if the world only really knew
It’s very foundation could proverbially be shook
Because you may run from love, but to be quickly caught is your fondest dream
Copyright ©2011 by j. k. Bradford, All Rights Reserved
Lovely poem. Before the page loaded, I thought it was going to be a poem complaining about people who bend the corners of pages in books 
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