Forged in fire
born of water
breathing air.

I wander through
the days now
waiting
I am becoming
purpose
All of the other things
are slowly
dropping away
Surreal machinations
move things closer
Inching day by day
In the meantime
Life speeds by
without me
Blinding lights
speeding traffic
and all I can do
is wait
wait
Until I can wait no more

do we go to heaven or do we go to hell
we will never know so we cant really tell
do we go up high to heaven up above
to a land of  peace filled with so much love
do go to hell to the ground below
to the devil with his horns and fires all aglow
we will never know until the day were dead
then we will get know in which we make our bed

These poems do not live: it's a sad diagnosis.
They grew their toes and fingers well enough,
Their little foreheads bulged with concentration.
If they missed out on walking about like people
It wasn't for any lack of mother-love.

O I cannot explain what happened to them!
They are proper in shape and number and every part.
They sit so nicely in the pickling fluid!
They smile and smile and smile at me.
And still the lungs won't fill and the heart won't start.

They are not pigs, they are not even fish,
Though they have a piggy and a fishy air --
It would be better if they were alive, and that's what they were.
But they are dead, and their mother near dead with distraction,
And they stupidly stare and do not speak of her.

Taking a chance will

                                       Either open a door or

Slam one in your face.