We are of one song,
but the verses ever change,
and no two of us are the same.
One chorus, in billions of keys,
and it doesn't always rhyme.

In a perfect verse,
we're born and we grow,
find love and a happily ever after,
then when we're old and gray
silently slip away in our sleep.

But the song is more often
melancholy than melodic,
less rhythm, more blues,
and we struggle to keep time,
and it doesn't always rhyme.

But SING!
Sing for all you're worth,
sing out of tune,
sing the wrong words,
sing at the top of your lungs
because it's YOUR verse,
YOUR voice,
YOUR efforts that make
the song worth singing
for those around you.
Find harmony in our
lack of melody,
find comfort in
our cacophonous refrain,
find yourself
in the words of the song,
and remember,
it doesn't always rhyme,
but you're never singing alone.

And
   you
      boast
         how
            you
            won't
         dislike
      death,
   only
dying

Does anyone truly understand
why flames dance?

Rhythmically burning
flicking and fluttering  
on the wick.

The more it burns
the closer the
flame approaches the
end

Perhaps this is why flames dance
better to burn out
in a state of rhythmic bliss
than to be snuffed out standing still

I looked for your face in the crowd.
maybe you would want to share this moment with me
The day ended without a word from you.

The Sun still went down,
the Moon still shone brightly in the night sky.
I still look for you.
I still, more than anything, wanted to hear from you.

I hope I made you proud today.

is it wrong to say i miss you?
babe
we have been not talking for days
and you expect me to be good
to be well
to be chill

i cant do any of that without you

I  still  love  my  Catherine  dearly.
Her  beauty  unsurpassed.
Long  golden  hair  and  pale  blue  eyes.
I  still  think  of  her  like  that.

But  that  was  four  decades  ago.
The  time  has  just  elapsed.
But  time  stands  still  in  the  memory.
Just  like  a  photograph.

We  were  to  marry  one  March  day.
But  circumstances  took  me  away.
When  I  returned  from  foreign  climes.
Life  had  moved  on  with  the  times.

I  never  saw  her  ever  again.
Odd  letters  I  did  get.
She  was  swallowed  up  in  city  life.
And  I  often  have  regrets.

Has  she  grown  old  gracefully.
Or  in  youthful  beauty  died.
Many  times  I've  thought  of  her.
And  many  times  I've  cried.

But  in  my  mind's  eye  clearly.
Running  swiftly  down  the  hill.
A  vision  of  loveliness.
Within  my  memory  still.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK. 2016.

I've been tasting darkness on my tongue
like candy;
I've been feeling blood flowing warmly through my veins,
ready for sacrifice:
the blood of a goddess,
the shine of the brightest star the night has ever held
and the mind of the most enigmatic child
the moon has ever raised.
I have been-
I am-
I always will be.
I feel,
I feel,
I fall with such satisfaction
you'd think I'm flying.
I let the sky bear the mark of my existence.