Perceptions askew, world torn apart
What was once in the light, now in dark
I can feel the anguish, the pain, the dispair
The sunken looks of disdain brought on by misery,
hearts and hopes in need of repair
Stand my ground and let it be...
The time will come for them to see
It's not my place to change their view
Compassionate stance when my colour turns blue
I am lifted up to another height inner seeking of others with same horizon in sight
The house has become
Surfeit with shadows
Can I tell you I'm afraid?
Afraid she won't wake up.
We are told that perfect
Faith casts out fear
It isn't my faith that fails
I'm afraid she won't know
How much I really love her.
And the darkness pools
Around the floors under our
Heavy antique furniture
I believe somewhere on a
Plane of them
There's a fingerprint of their
Craftsman, long dead.
There is solice in knowing that
When she finally dies
(And she will)
Hands tire, expire in
The thump of the stars encircling the world
The lust of atmosphere, caring for the waters
Nestling in the dark soot of gravity, it curls
That memory, we drove into
The mountains, Autumn unfurled its burnt
Tongue and we lingered in the Us
(What God hoped we weren’t)
I’ll miss your touch when Time
Cries ENOUGH, the symmetry of hope
Grasping at my shoulder, my face
If only Life weren’t a forever slope
I have tried to show her
That love is not a waste.
She lays upon my chest at night,
My arms around her waist
She will cry in her sleep,
There's nothing I can do
Every time I open my eyes,
She's a new shade of blue.
I hate seeing her sad.
It tears my heart apart.
I just want to make her happy
She's my own form of art.
Sunlight flares across the glass as her face stares out, eyes wreathed in wrinkles and slitted slightly, thin mouth drawn down in pain or bitterness or maybe disappointment.
Blue sky reflects in the faded pupils and silvery hair whispers like fairy floss above the pink scalp. Pale blotchy skin creases and pleats itself over the bone structure.
She lifts a veined, liver spotted hand, knotty with arthritis, to her lips.
I study the outline of her face, looking for the young girl with long, glossy brown hair I remember. She of the thrown back throat, ready laugh and warm smile.
The passionate one - forgiving quickly because she loved much and was loved in return.
She's survived her husband by many lonely years.
Ah, wait! - there's the dimple hidden in the folded skin.
Time stands still as we search each other's eyes, looking for a connection until I notice a tear sliding down along her nose.
I turn away from the mirror.