Often a magic key or sets of those unlocking instruments are an imagined tool to escape—to find—to prevail and to become again lost in secret recesses—accesses known only to a favorite few or in the plain-view of everyone. There are so many secrets discovered and so little time for those secret solutions. And! The way to hearts is always through hearts.
Keys are for the gate or the vault or the power over everything or underneath ever day. These bits of magic are always certain and almost—mostly remain undiscovered. On somewhere worlds of somewhere places keys of several plus two bring together and combine to open portals of sometime space to those able to find those magic tools.
Open now the valves of hearts before the ending winds of fantasy and miracle crafts of ancient presents start the sound and close the jeweled reminding remainders of once was and will again be—behind this closet space and scattered among the norms of whimsy. Combine the key of blood across a place knowing the unknown knowledge and uncertainty of places developed—forgotten and reminded as ancient sketches text ruins of things and times to remember.
We did not find ourselves within swirls of gold and pebbles of purple stones. We touch beneath the blue of sky before clouds reasoned our reason for running toward our cave of gray rocks and soft dirt. We touch blood-love dry from rain and warmed away from wind howl and storm. A key of warm blood and heart surge and the air of together gate and through a portal into forever—ever place.
Key then we and we are—before the rain and after the mystic portions of storm and war and wind and rain and gain and pain and the losses of yesterday’s mystical memories inside today. Across a world of life the same blood moves and time exists only in those carrying the sweetness of a nothing concept or a notion of not this moment. Time is never-key. No time are magic keys of forever places and spaces between raindrops and years-to-end.
A time of early morning when sounds are soft against ear and movement does not play darts and goes and stop and start. A time to reflect or not to think but to happen as life happens in the sweet flow of quiet seashore in bright moon’s light. Waves even—gently lick the places of sand castles fading as eastern stars’ faint twinkle and the roars of today’s day touch the future and stops.
We—barefoot children of yesterday, leave the mere and slightest of indention in a sand semi-wet and cool from the absence of sunshine.
We—the children of another dawn, touch hand or swish jacketed shoulder once or twice or often without the counting of times or steps or memories. We are the happening of breath and silhouettes angled away from us by the western moon to fade or go by whimsy cloud or art.
Smiles not required and laughter not heard, not from or by our own design or folly. We are born of yesterday’s parents and tomorrow’s ruin. However—right on this moment and now on this side of second slide, we birth this moment or instance or day or past night’s hour.
We—live only of this stretch of sand and along with the catching up of tides flow believe the ice and water before and behind us are our ground and our chapter of seasons lived and written against the sands of shifting grain and the wind.
Care for life and alive and steeped in the reality of earth-beat and washed in the eternity of spirit and even alone—never lonely or forgotten with passing days or endless years of grooved space and the distance between here and there and everywhere.
And! Lion’s sandy paws follow our fading footsteps washed away by gentle surf and the settle of a constant settlement of earth and sky. We—you and I are instantly together and drawn by this moment and the notion of the simplicity of knowing we are beings beneath the fading light of moon and the coming of dawn-light and shadow. Those fading prints of sandy paws disappear and Lion call echoes somewhere across the bay. It is the music of this night and the rhythm of today.