Passed  a  neglected  garden  of  late.
It  seemed  in  quite  a ­­ sorry  state.
Some  men  came  to  make  some  notes.
But  seem­ed  to  give  it  little  thought.
Up  on  high  the  grasses  gr­ow.
Beneath  the  windows  row  by  row.
The  other  plants  just­ ­ cry  with  pain.
I  guess  we'll  never  grow  again.
They  ha­ve­  taken  up  our  space  on  the  ground
Like  an  advancing  ­army  I'll  be  bound.
They  are  taking  our  water  Oh  my.
As ­ they  journey  to  the  sky.
Perhaps  it  soon will  be  resolved.­
And  peace  will  reign.
Once again

Keith  Wilson    Windermere.  UK.  2016­.

In January I felt so free
Wanting to explore vast infinity

In February I started school
Ditching classes like any fool

In March I was at work and met you
A man with brown eyes and a gaze so blue

In April my heart did sing
With all the love you did bring

In May I felt brand new
******* for the first time in front of you

In June I was so uneasy
Fearing that you'd up and leave me

In July you ended it all
Telling me you'd never call

In August I wept through the season
Feeling like my life had no reason

In September I regained my strength
Deciding to cut my depression's length

In October we met again
Darkness in your eyes did reign

In November you tried to play with me
But your false words didn't drown me in misery

In December you told me about your cheating
When you found your heart wounded and bleeding

I held her, I pulled her close to me until she felt safe.
I whispered in her ears telling her I loved her, did she feel safe with me?
I told her she was leaving this world, she asked am I going to a better place?
She died in my arms.
I looked in her eyes, she was at peace.
I love you Chloe you meant the world to me.
I know I wasn't always the greatest towards you.
You will always be in my heart.

What does infinite longing
sound like?
Where is the vault that holds
the seed corn of sadness?
And how can we mute our fear
when the barred owls in these
dank woods sob in perfect
sympathy
with the night?

Here
the tense oboes find their range
silence pervades their thoughts
the drum marks a beat
while the string section weaves
a hieroglyph of grief
and resignation.

This symphony is called
the song of the night
and night proves to be
full of whispered life
rustling leaves
and the courage to face it.

But night is not synonymous
with darkness.
Its ways and means
harmonize with the light
render half the whole
parcel our sleeping hours
into dreams
and fitful moments
beneath the staring moon.

In the morning
a plaintive bird song
stirs thought
brings the sun into the east
and wraps night's dreams into
a silk handkerchief
where dreams are tightly bound
and forgotten.