To be free would be fine

But then we write a line

And we are tied to ink

As babies are by milk

Images dance behind eyelids

And words are formed, onto paper they slid

Slid through the ink to the nib of the pen

Not knowing when images and words are unbound again.

I've not been outside for 100 days.
100 days of self imprisonment,
like a bird in a cage, though the bird was forced,
I have sentenced myself.
I try to go out but the outside wins,
it whispers warnings on the wind, it rustles its rudeness in the trees leaves, it sends a crow to caw, telling me to close the door and stay in.

You reap what you sow,
even if that's only woe.

There are no goodbyes.
Just a long exhalation, then a sigh.
A sigh of peace, a sigh of grief.
A sigh of guilty relief.
Relief that you let go.
Relief that you went gently into the night.

Selfish is death as it steals your breath,
and takes ours away in grief.
But memory is kind it rose colours our mind,
and allows us to be left behind.

You'll always be our best memory
You'll always be at your best
You'll always be at rest,
and we left behind will always be bereft.

But there are no "good"byes
Just tears to cry
A life to dignify
And the question Why?

I never said goodbye dad, always "see you later".
Goodbye is too final, and love never dies.
There isn't a full stop, and the clocks still tick then tock.
While we children still breathe, half of you never leaves.
Good or bad, perfect or flawed, you are always our dad.

Where do you go when you stare?
Am I there?
What are you looking at?
Is it me?
Why are your eyes vacant,
and your mind so full?
Do you remember?
Do you want to remember?
Are you in the past?
Are you in the present?
Are you remembering?
Are you forgetting?
Remembering running, walking, playing.
Remembering loving, singing and dancing in the rain?
What are you looking at when you stare?
I can't answer I'm not there.

Happiness folds in on itself
like a piece of paper.