“Onward rejoicing I tread life’s way;”
Up this hilltop, a narrow sidewalk but I run and dream away.
“Higher I’m climbing each passing day;”
Do something you know can inspire others but kill you some day.
“Hilltops of glory now rise in view;”
Once I’m to the top, I’ll forget it was you.
“Where all shall be made new;”
…so, what about the failing few...?

December 4th, 2018

On a cold hilltop of Glory down the street from my home, I run it to secure a story upon my father’s proposed throne. Creatively running and speaking to his supposed stone, the top is where I dance, fight, and alone, as he once proposed.

Since I can’t speak with him about this journey I embark so bold, during my excruciating runs is when we speak until his message is complete, and onto a new understanding I approach.

Before his creative beast learned to speak, runs up a hilltop were as shameful as planes without wings… Flying wasn’t his thing, and dying was something he knew we’d all be doing. And upon his transition, he took flight and was carried by the wings of Mt. Zion’s calling.

It hurts upon the decent to the top. Because it’s where we die and renew the runner’s high of thoughts. Upon my dad’s final approach to Mt. Zion’s viewing porch, he said, “I’m here, and that world down there you must never touch, but water it til’ the love we’ve spread is dust…”

I shouldn’t tell you what that means, because I promised him I’d show readers what it feels to be writing a dream. And be forever in flight with a beast unseen, who soars higher than eagles, disconnecting with people, and love is its fuel—pristine and mistakenly cruel…

Dear Dad,

We both made it up top a new Mt Zion;

My home down below your throne,

And Blue; like we once grew together and known.


It’s Mt. Dekum alas; where you’ll rest well forever in contrast.

Meanwhile, runs in the city down here are magnificent over the bridges at night;

Canvased by beautiful dark city skies that shine so bright.

I recently moved in with Rocky to workout the worries.


He got me boxing, just like you; not even he will stop me…

#Amwriting daily despite the past year in aviation being paid so nicely.

And remember me watching Doug at night?

Well, my journal’s divine, they’ll read it upon my final Mt. Zion flight…

But first, Brazil, Europe, Africa, Asia, and back to the Nordic.

I’m sure in-flight we’ll speak over the drink I order.

Did you speak with my grandma’ Joe yet?

She never thought I could become a pilot.

Don’t worry, I’m not, yet…

But still reminisce riding to the airport from her apartment...

I told the people this would be the last I’d tell this story,

I had to get the ending from you.

Listening to Teddy Pendergrass up hilltops with views.

Running fast at the end through a field of grass—renewed,

Like the December night I remember leaving you;

By the way, what about Grandma’ Dear?

Did you ask her about that pre-maternal fear?

I was recently told about how you were never suppose to be here.

But you arrived, proving fear puts the eagle in joyous tears…

Maybe my muse can push others like her from their sheer,

As long as I don’t break the rules of Zion’, sounding weird.

And hopefully no one mistakes my tears for weakness,

Did you know it’s the water flowing down Mt. Dekum’s bliss?

At least readers will see what happens when a vehicle’s over fueled,

These tears prove we’re richour memories are jewels

—Love, your main man,

TK

Born and raised in Portland, Oregon, Budd writes because no one can 'read' him. And it's a great way to hide public thoughts...

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