I need my beautiful Muse,
I have no words for which that I can use, or anyone else that I would let abuse,
me in this way

I want my beautiful man,
I seriously thought we had a plan,
I would never put up with this or stand,
for the things you sometimes say,

I loved our beautiful life,
I would love to be your beautiful wife,
I'd never let another twist an angry knife,
as you stab I pray,

As you let me bleed to death,
cold on the kitchen floor,
I think,
as I take my last long final breath,
and look on heavens lovely shore,
I blink,
I am,
lying,
guilty,
in this endless pool of indigo ****** ink,
But like any relationship,
I will never
be really gone.

She sits at her favorite stool,
and his too,
an old metal one,
with a soft faded & holey towel,
folded as a make-shift cushion,

Her knees out to the side,
one foot on each rung,
sipping fruity tea with honey,
crisp cold white snow blankets her outside
world,
it ain't for her the money,
preparing ideas for food for many,
always composing magic,
and bracing for the many requirements,
of her day,

She sits there so very often,
it was her very ***** place,
she loves so very much to be there,
but she leaves with only grace,

A lover, friend and his personal chef,
with him she's gotta keep the pace,
keep her his your corner,
when you need it she's a welcomed ace,
such a wonderful and sturdy brace,
grey skies are so easy for her spirit away to chase,
a strong and bending tree,
you could never really break that base,

Seems like to some in order to have true love,
is like winning some old endless race,
she hides her disappointed tears,
and a smile comes to her lovely aging face,

Patience it is her virtue,
but strength it is at her core,
her kindness though only goes so far,
before she shuts the proverbial, door,

She's been down the long goodbye road,
a few too many times before,
but hey boy it ain't like she's ever really tried at keeping score,
and she loves so much its only her mind that's temporarily feeling a tad bit sore,

She is the strength of very many,
she has her Father's helping hands,
you'll notice when she's gone,
you'll cry out her name,
in lost demands,
she's a waning waxing moon,
she changes quickly with it's sudden plans,
she leaves when the wind calls,
into the drifting times of sands,

She may not be so "easy",
but what good ever comes that way?
please boy,
listen to every single word I say,
you need the sun to shine,
so please just ask her light to stay,

So plead to her to never ever really,
go away,
she's the one who loves you true,
I pray you hear my words today,

As it seems it is the only way,
for you in this,
my folded hands,
in my silent reverie for you,
& her
I will forever,
& always pray.

Cherie Nolan © 2016

I can only surmise,
why people give up on this "wonderful" life,
& say such hard and violent goodbyes,
I've been down on my knees,
& they've heard all my loneliest cries ,

It doesn't really mean that I'm really so, wise,
& doesn't mean I got the magic seeing eye,

Seeing how someone could want,
to be a ghost who will forever haunt,
to miss this most golden "opportunity",
a do-over,
when hands are up in futility,

From my most painful of memories,

I try to extract the reason,
from so deep within,
way deep below the surface of my skin,

And I think it is just enough,
too much of everything,
shattered spirits,
turning into brilliant shining stars,
eventually,
& no longer can they feel those hateful
old scars,

Cuz,
it maybe is that time,
for them,
who are we to really say,
what's so right or wrong anyway?

It seems a selfish way indeed,
a warning for me perhaps to heed,
though by death they say we are freed,

It seems so fundamentally " wrong"
and yet,

I just seem to completely understand.

Cherie Nolan © 2016

Hear the following prayer
in the timbre of gratitude:

I've had enough with all the bags
in which I carry my things,
with bright screens that sting my eyes,
and with the musical strings.

My ears are sore from the machines
that change and amplify the waves;
so bring me the thoughts of poets and
bring me the prayers of saints.

Whisper the wisdom of years gone by,
of life spilled out in the streets.
My heart is weary, the weight of this world
has brought me to my knees.

There's only one thing I ask
for which to dull the pain;
bring me the thoughts of poets and
bring me the prayers of the saints.

When you shut me out,
my soul just shudders,
at the thought,
a thought that my sole to soul
match could be gone,
forever,
where I will await your face again,
beneath the beautiful earthly loam you bury me in.

Cherie Nolan © 2016