Past the field and smoke-filled highway he can see the late afternoon sky peeking its way through the smog and chaos caused by his arrival as he waits. Deep set eyes,standing tall, a mid length tan-duster on his back, rugged boots and a Yankees cap.
Holding a Fixation Bowie in his left hand, strapped with an AR-15 hanging off his right shoulder slightly touching his hip; he exhales a cold breath of determination and passion...
Intrigue races through his blood allowing him the power to feel; It lingers on, it shows in his face.
Livid lines of life's experiences hide in the pores of his skin, stark hard terror lurks there. He scratches his jaw and opens his eyes wide, he stands a champion for having made it this far.
Her heart speaks to him in mental geographic whispers. He knows she's got his back.. He's not here for the violence, He is all over the place at a race against ironies & double standards, How they abound! He's in an Eagle Globe Anchor mindset, yet he's stuck in a padded room with no view, having banshees for company that officiate at zombie weddings,
His real name is nom de plume yet all the evidence points to the contrary It's his identity that won't be constrained by a piece of paper He's always misunderstood. She showers him with wondrous tenderness, She redefines sincere & honesty.
His world is black and white, middle ground doesn't roll off his tongue He wonders if she knows. Ever resisting the vector of circumstance, they pursue their self-actualization on different paths, Of artistic differences they have compendiums, yet there's not enough distance in miles or meters nor enough difference in the multiverse to drive them apart.
They are forever years old, there friendship is written in stone....