Peeking from my window blind
waiting,
in my defense I am peeking out
again,
to make sure I am not caught
unaware.

The shadows move while the trees
stand
still, long enough for me to catch
only
a glimpse of the threat that I alone am
facing.

The end of my life the end of my days
when
I will longer be peeking out of this place,
time,
wasting away slower than my mind, as it
is diseased.


©DWE102013

they drift away like memories,
When Alzheimer's  and Dementia,
Enter the skull shaped room.

they are pushed out of the Present,
To where they belong, the Past,
Exiting through the Closet.

Rattling the bones of the skeletons
building up and building up,
a legacy, of things not spoken,
things better left unsaid, it is
is like the ****** talking about...

The Undead.

they are not kissing cousins,
they are not twin sons of different mothers,
they were people once to,
they were run through the gauntlet,
lining the hallways till their nerves gave
Up,
and their will gave
In,
to the darkness.

they believed the bed of lies and pulled
the poison comforter up and under their chin,
suffocating,
hopes and dreams,
      they no longer dream at night and only in the
                          daydreams do they find comfort,
                           they are beyond hope, a desolate
                           land mass enriched and making
                           they who live there, poor.

they are those who were bullied
and never recovered,
they are those who were abused,
and were refused to be,
believed.
they are the ones who want
writing
to be witty and light hearted,
with bees that bumble,
meadows to have dandelion clocks, to
tell the time,
where the fresh mountain air,
cleanses the past
which is sadly soiled and soaked with all the salty tears,
stalling the seed of hope, desperate need of hope,
until the tears that fall have no salt,
or no longer fall,
they are those who thought they found love,
and then they woke up...to a different story,
then the life they were living and all they
had been doing, was giving and giving until,
they hated their own bones,
they did not recognize the images
in mirrors,
they lived in fear, that they would be found out,
and the escape route would be taken away.

Or tossed out of reach.
Onto the flat roof tops of an empty school,
broken windows, borrowed childhood dreams,
high pitched voices, too soft to hear their screams,
now forgotten. They.

There
could be
no sweeter moment
than if I tasted
your exhale, full with
a hint of
honey as my
last breath
...



©DWE032014

soggy clothes,
drape limp like hope,
need to be wrung out,
soaked from night sweats,
save all the drops, in a clear cup,
from sobs into a tired pillow case,
good to the last drop,
save all the tears, in a clear cup,
on a window sill,
watch them evaporate evenly in the heat,
of the days,
of the sun,
maybe then,
ah then and maybe,
  wellness will be found again,
   tears will stop,
   no longer a hole in the heart,
    and joy will fill the whole of life,
     unless the clouds thick and static
       stay still, and hide the heat to take
         the tears and sweat ...away.

But wait, ...
       what will show the trail of the trial,
        to here? 


                                     Yes... look closer and see,
                                             the line high up on
                                                   the clear cup.

If I could sing, it would not be a lament,
I cannot sing,
If I could sing, it would be an exultation,
I cannot sing,
For some might hear and go deaf, as a result,
I cannot sing,
I will not sing unless, the wind is running wild,
                                   the view of the ocean, as seen by a child,
                                   the place is nowhere near, nay nigh,
I cannot sing so,
I will write Fare Thee Well in a lilt, that sends chills down the spine,

I will write, I am richer for knowing you, even in this dark night where I
                                                                ­     travel poorly all alone,
I will write May God watch over us, both need His Grace and His Mercy,
                                                          ­  each day without you, and no song
                                                            ­                                              is wrong,
For I cannot sing.



©DWE032014

short circuit,
vessels vacillate,
minutes tick-
tock, stock parts,
have no heart,
to carry on,
to carry on,
could go on
for hours,
for days,
for weeks,
for years,
for many months,
may only have
minutes,
so forgive me
if I leave without
saying goodbye,
lying flat looking
up, this is,
yours
as I am alone,
this is for,
you,
minutes become
moments,
it is all we
ever had,
was never bad,
but I a sinner,
beloved of God,
became a forgiven winner,
of an eternal prize,
everything hurt,
until now,
everything was temporary,
piece of peace,
is all that is
required,
and how is it
you are no where
near,
but more beautiful
than both of us ever,
knew,
tears dried up and pour
from every duct,
life is over,
no more minutes
tuck me in,
put your hand

on the
last beat

of this heart,
which is, no longer
mine.

eyes fixed
on the black disc,
a dot on a white
surface,
digesting
the suggestion,
to discover,
what it is to play.

stick in hand,
head up,
eyes drink in
the frozen surface,
bodies moving,
gliding, striding,
each action a demand
to play.

everytime your stick
touches the ice,
it leaves a line or
a trail, giving not away, the intent,
but the chill thrill of the play,
about to happen through,
creativity sharing by passing,
a dot, a disc, proof of play.

skate blades carve and cut, finding,
that fine edge of traction attraction,
control is the mirage, as the ice steam,
rises to a fog hardly noticed,
among the players of the game they,
all adore, one cuts in front, takes the pass,
he shoots, He Scores!,
All because he kept his stick on the ice.


©DWE032014