HOLLYWOOD HILLS; 8AM

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By Tom H. Brooks 3

 

To wake up
in a house on a hill
surrounded by treetops-
the sun beams
through the windows
angling distorted shadows
across the rug.
The turbulent winds
outside
transform the trees
into a fury
of waving branches
whipping in the gusts,
a symphony of leaves and light
framed against the backdrop
of an endless blue sky
that goes on forever,
or so it seems…
The hissing breeze
the whistling wind
echoes through the chambers
of my empty heart-
howls through the labyrinth
of my troubled mind-
it becomes a mournful tune-
lonely music
that blows away
lost causes
and
broken things
better left behind.
It leaves me
with nothing but myself
and my own strange and fleeting thoughts,
that, light as a feather,
tend to fly off
with each new gust of wind,
cleansing my bitter heart.

I stare out
across
the olive and brown hills
through the dancing trees.
It is 8am.
The HOLLYWOOD sign sits
bone white
and alone
on its mountain,
gloating
with lost dreams
and
empty promises….
yes, yes
I am listening…

 

 

THB3

 

 

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