Secrets are rarely as heavy as
the weight we assign to them.
The gravity of circumspect
plays out, time and again. It is
what we carry as we decide
what crosses, or is held within,
our moral divide.
Sit with it for a while, moved
only when memory comes into
play; last night, or the other, or
any other day.
09/05/2024 j.g.l.
When you are not ready to say
all you need to say, you remain
unable to feel all you are
meant to feel.
Joy, relief, compassion,
beliefs, unobtainable all in the
truest sense. Your solitude, like
a sin, stays locked inside.
Unbidden, personal inquisition
only you can reply to, abiding
precious time.
09/03/2024 j.g.l.
Treat others
as you would
treat yourself.
Share when you can.
Kindness has no season,
but is best served
with appreciation.
Gratitude does not
need a reason, but
the taste will last
a very long time.
Be thankful.
09/02/2024 j.g.l.
I'm like a pencil;
sometimes sharp,
most days
well-rounded,
other times
dull or
occasionally
broken.
Still I write.
j.g. lewis
is a writer/photographer in Toronto.
It stops.
Dreams, planted and paid for, dissipate with the season.
The eighth month,
forever a period of turmoil.
Imbalance.
Injustice.
Always.
The heartbreak of August.
Always endings, always there.
Goodbyes believable, stories told from sixteen onward,
a laundry list of sorrows, added items along the way
from a boy to a man, to whomever I struggle with now
and again.
I don’t know.
I live with it. This eighth month. August. I have naturally learned
to accept. My prescient nature, not always accurate, but available,
should I choose to pay attention to the whispers or my conscience.
Often choices are made for me, although
I continue believing you are where you are
because you ended up here.
Can you know?
This is not the season to hide, this eight month forebodes.
Always.
August.
As quickly as it comes.
As quickly as it goes.
Unhappiness fades away, with flowers, with memories,
with that freedom that comes from shorter midnights.
Soon to change.
September soon.
Calendars need not remind of weeks, or
years gone by. Each month has a purpose.
The sky sits lower.
It waits.
It knows.
@ 2018 j.g. lewis
I’m like a pencil;
sometimes sharp,
most days
well-rounded,
other times
dull or
occasionally
broken.
Still I write.
j.g. lewis
is a writer/photographer in Toronto.