There once was a tiny raindrop;
it fell right out of the sky.

It fell in a puddle of brothers and sisters,
and all without pause said "Hi!"

But before it could finish,
the puddle had dried,
and the poor little rain drop...
Well, sadly... he died.

Pale bones corroded,
structured in squares,
sit idly,
and stare.

They always stare.

A lofty bed,
with wrinkled cottons.
Tattered blanket.
Pillows shuffled all aloof.

The curtains are closed.

You see me,
an open man.
Strong and tall,
with massive hands.

I see me,
a brittle soul.
With broken
bones and
rotted whole.

And every day,
when I awake,
my weary bones
begin to shake.

And every night,
I end my fight
to free myself
from endless plight.

But, perhaps,
upon tomorrow,
some'one will cure
this old man's sorrow.

What is the sound of wind, when it is still?
The voice of God; not of common nature.
Will His will be that of a saving pill,
gradually easing the pain and hurt?
Not to be so blunt or overbearing;
subtle and often thought to have been gone;
found in time of heart's wearing and tearing;
patience shall prove the world to have been wrong.
Common stares of displaced disappointment;
the love of passion and passion of love
that speaks and heals; it, a hidden ointment;
messages sent by means of still'ed doves.
Nought of punishment or chasten of sin,
in the presence of a quiet God's whim.

*An old sonnet I wrote.