Growing up
     is not what
it seems.

       That's why
there are
people in their fifties
         acting like
they're fifteen.

Spilled ink means spiders
tread footprints where endeavors
are to be most foul

Art is dead. Poor Art.
Poor Art's kids and wife.
Art, you will be missed.

~

And I fall…down

As the sunset of life reaches out to me
in marmalade swirls…orange sherbet dreams
I follow in loose footsteps,
not sure of the bridges I cross
or those burned in the process

Alone I stumble on braided pebbles,
scattered on this serpentine path,
feeding my mind with thoughts
Peering back on what was,
crying when your picture finds me

Dark tangerine tints line the sky now
for the day…this day…my life
shall soon disappear beyond the horizon
Fading to a tiny speck,
hiding in plain sight where no one can see…or care

Finality sings its sad melody
in fractured bar chords and minor notes
As I again find you invading my soul,
reaching down from my heart,
the place you still reside

And I whisper I am sorry…for the pain
Collections of hurt I did not realize I carried
beneath shiny bows and pretty paper
Sending you away from me…my precious gift,
the loss of all that was me…you

Quicker my steps drive
to that straight line illusion beckoning
Darker still as minutes pass
for I know this end is mine alone
as the moon crests the sea and I fall…down

I caught the sun with my hand
and ate it like a blood orange
pulp bursting through my seams
it seems imagination has lost its shine

From you I learnt
that true love was
and endless cycle
of hello and good night.

Yet you and I
were stuck in a vortex
of stay and goodbye.