I took note of the wind that bristled through my hair

She whispered secrets
Echoed thoughts
and even dared

To speak up so that others could hear
Yet another arbitrary fear

Of whom else's but mine alone
for the wind's feelings were mine to own

Or so I thought, at the time
I thought that we were doing fine

And yes we were
Both of us simply open letters
then she wrote to me
"But we can do so much better"

and so I let her.

I let the world know who wind was, and she told the world to listen close

"It is I whom you take in, it is I whom you depend on, and as you listen to my solemn prose, know that it is I whom none can get wrong"

She spoke some more, and they all listened
and as more did, the less I took the wind in.

Thank you wind for all you've done

Finally, a new journey for me has begun.
A better one.

What sort of character is Death?

Are they funny, mad, or lucid?

Do they comfort you when passing, similar to what you did?

Do you find them lying next to you once your soul awakes, both of you surrounded by darkness?
Or do they swiftly take you, pulled into the dark that only hearkens.

What awaits us when we die, we won’t know until we do.

Though I can find comfort in the idea of death
if death is anything like you.

Be wary of the thoughts you let roam inside your mind

They only serve to bring you old joy, love, and pain

For a time.

They allow you to be so lost, in a fruitful world long gone

Reminiscing at night, waking you at dawn.

And when you wake you find yourself alone, laid across your cold hard bed

And so the thought comes through your troubled mind, “am I simply better off dead?”

No.

You are not.

I urge you from my grave of which your tears have dried upon
To find the will to carry on.

For while my heart may not be beating any longer for you to listen close

I hope the words that I expressed to you during my final days will  let you know

That I loved you more than most.

So please, I ask once more from you from beyond my aging grave that misses you so

Be wary of the thoughts that roam inside your mind, and learn to


let them go.

The flowers you refused had begun to wilt when you had left

Something more that you should know is I refused to get them wet

I let them wither and discolor, forgotten they existed

Wouldn’t you consider that cold, and rather twisted?

Well, wouldn’t you agree?


I see.

The greys in my mother's hair.

Is more than I alone can bear.

To see her age beyond repair

It delivers quite the scare.

I always wished I had more time

To do right by her.

To show her what I can do and be

But it's only getting harder for her to see.

I think back on the times I broke her heart

How her little miracle didn't care then.

Oh how I wish I could restart

I'd never break her heart again.

But now I sit and wish and stare

Wondering how I can rid the grey in my mother's hair.