There is a past spread out before me, casting me to depths of despair, filling time with darkness in death’s open door.
Time has packed it’s bags and left, no longer interested in what will happen.
Tired of incessant sadness, crowding every moment, leaving nothing – joy and happiness cannot abide within.
Winds of sand form dunes upon the desert of life, forsaking every particle of breath to lie down and be buried beneath the heaviness of memories and it’s images.
Taken together we escape and leave earth for another plain, unseen.
Fragily accelerating quietness into tunnels filled with beautyand wonder.Afterwards, creating sensations of all-natural life in onesingle moment, full of the sound of music.Recordingly playing dirges of ancient pastimes, appearing tofondle the existence of positive memory.Sensing something hidden deeply within, walking towards it,reaching constantly to grab hold of it in my writing.Silent loneliness surrounds my heart…
Pictures of life are held tenderly in portrayals of paintings made in poems of thought.Allowing for ideas to form and be shaped as pens continually place ink onto parchments of imagination.
Do we, too, become like signs in the night – helping noone – having no purpose in life?Afraid to let anyone know us during the light of day?Standing around vacant lots where there are no people tomake demands on us, do we too, fail to leave our mark –our message – in life?
of peacefulness and not divulging anyparticles of it’s temptuous feats.Starting and finally stopping in themidst of tomorrow.
Wondering of the reasons and ideas, bringing them to fruition in aging days of senior years.
