With wood and nails, we build a boat
So man like God can learn to float
He sets his sails across the sea
Row in hand alone he’ll be
The waves clashed… the sea was rough
The stormy clouds were not a bluff
The rain cleared and from its mist
Another name upon death’s list

For within the hallowed ground
Of marbled stone
Sits fog.. of sorrow and woe
It lingers…lingers of promises made but broken with time.
And of conversations that the wind now carry…
The leafless trees stand guard upon this temple of man
Cover your heads…mock not the tears that fall
For like the coals of a once lit fire we crumble…
And the wrinkles upon one’s hand is the reminder…

With a heavy heart do I stumble…
With wounds deeper than the treachery that caused them…
Oh and to what extant do these treacheries reach…
To what ends does the poison flow
With icy cold fingers that holds the blade that strikes…
With callous...such callous is the impertinence of thy
For who is to blame? Nor you…nor I…
But trust…
Oh and such a word...for only man would have to create such a word to than create another to destroy...
Who’s like an infant...its only guilt... innocence
And yet as life fades... as does the burden I carry
Take this crown for it holds no value... and wear it well…
For tomorrow brings a new day…
And may you see this I hope… the sun rise and set
For I no longer have that luxury…

Your love is like a whisper...a whisper of a promise that is never fulfilled and a lie that grows like the wrinkles on the hand with age.

The red roses of Abby Grove,
Stems of green and pollen gold,
Fallen leaves and the faint of scent
Winter comes in it’s deep decent.
The cold chill covers the once red field.
Lifeless and plain that holds no yield.
A once known fragrance now lost in white.
In the darkness under the moons bright light.
Is known. And forgotten in the spring last past.
Trees of green and meadows vast.
The meadow now white with snow
From echo cries of the faint black crow.
The red roses of Abby grove,
Once bright red now lost in snow.
Stems of green and pollen gold.

From time to time I lay in bed and listen to the Shindler's List sad violin music and stare at the ceiling...never been much of a religious man but if id believe in anything it be to whatever higher power that lets man create music with such honest, real, raw emotion at that piece of music.

The picture that comes to my mind is a bird in winter exhausting looking for food...as the blanket of snow covers a once green field now lays dead...I see myself as that bird...ever looking...ever hoping...

But because its simply a bird and its understanding of the severity of its situation is as oblivious is as its innocence...will it succumb to the cold bitter world and lay in that snow...rest in peace my little friend...for you and I are one in the same...

With fingers from behind the bed that reach out in the dark
The wrinkled skin, and sharp chipped nails...reminds you that shes come
You hide underneath the blanket, with little to no hope
As if standing upon the gallows staring at the rope...
Death comes in many forms...its unclear...which may come
But know that when it picks your name it leaves your body numb
It whispers your name...as if in a prayer
And if it takes you early, it leaves you...with no heir
Don't ask what it looks like for none that live will know
And if you go searching its power will surly grow