The boatman glides over dark waters,
Calloused hands hold heavy oars.
City lights twinkle like fire flies,
On murky currents forged by undertows.
His face well carved by years of hardship,
A backbone bent by deep regret,
He's marking tickets off for the passengers,
Most still unawares
His name be Death.

Take it from me
There’s not much to see
In this garden with few sunny days

No prize winning flowers
Sprouting upward like towers
For invited guests to amaze

But when I come home
To a house all alone
I’m glad that my yard goes

To humble blossoms
Daffodils lined in rows
And a spot where tulips have arose

It's where I go to unwind
Achieve peace of mind
And escape a day of lows

So I’m sure you’ll agree
There’s not much to see
In this garden for guests to amaze

But this garden is fine
Because it is mine
Where I happily spend all my days

I have been
nothing before
and while I prefer
to be something
to you
zero
is a perfect circle
the beginning
the end
one seamless strand
made whole

This feeling...
Heavy...
Like a wreath bearing down my neck.
Every fibre in me seem to be at loggerheads.

My heart...
Pounding.
Each beat is a hammer
sledging away at my saneness.

My breaths...
Premature and short.
Inconsistent.
I respire full but with punctured lungs.

Pens have been silenced and quills no longer spew forth words. Chirps, tweets and post have taken the place of polite communication. Letters are now seen in a museum and one blurb can be around the world in a moment. Oh how it grieves the soul to see the art of relating diminished to nothingness. Were Shakespeare to see the folly, he would shake his head in disbelief. Samuel Clemens might lay down his pen and return to a river boat captains ways. Lord Byron would lament and Mr. Poe would brood in a dark and morbid way. What shall become of the future generations, who have lost their way. To even be able to form two coherent sentences may be too much to ask of them. Oh how do you mourn the death of the written word?