Bottled Fortune

Discontented by the tendency to grow evermore prosaic in the face of all that is

It’s just nature, I guess… The art of being no more than all that you are

Same as my proclivity for loquacious and garbled messages

Bottled by children whose whimsy knows nothing about being marred


The trick is keeping the spark in your bewearied eyes

Set the bottle out to sea, and give to the horizons all you can afford

Be quick to forget, lose sight of all you know over the crest of the hill, and sigh

Each blade of grass tickles your spine in salty breezes and stains the clothes you wore


Sleep, dream, and watch a forest grow evermore prosaic and vast under stars

And as the sun rises to meet you, blow a kiss

Listen to it call you back to the water’s edge – however far

In shattered glass on the sand, a weathered note reminds you of all that is


Scribbled, childish writing on the paper more profound than what you grew to see

The secret is no matter who you are, where you go, or what you do, you leave as you came, as you have been and always will be



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Ponderings of a Probation Officer

The tales of juvenile probation are sometimes splendid and sometimes melancholy. This is where I have decided to dump/cope with my reflections.

T. Shaw

She writes what she speaks.

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