The old man without wrinkles
Was playing
Patience
Spreading his cards on the bed
Talking to himself
About his moves
Engrossed in his own world
Of cards and advancing years

People are going and coming
Through his room
Not the least bothered
He is busy with
His outer world
He is not waiting for
The dead end.

When his cataract-operated eyes
Will be tired
He will express his desire
To sit in the veranda

His books and a dictionary
Will be put on the table
And he is seen engrossed
Again cut off from
The outer world
Immersed
In the world of books
Sometimes he would lift up
His head smile and look around
And again go into his self-created world,
Today I read a status on FB
About the legendary cellist,
Pablo Casals who used to practice
At the age of ninety; and beyond

I find similarity between them
Both of them are making progress
In life, defeating despair, it seems
Shutting the dark thoughts
From their inner worlds

Last night
I saw him in my dream playing
Patience and l heard
The distinct strokes of bow on a Cello

And now I woke up
With awe at the way
They were not
Actually waiting
But celebrating!

I made it.
Time for some changes, major changes in my life, in my existence.
I'm making changes.
Healing myself, taking better care of myself..
here's to changes.
Small ones, to fight away the thoughts that bring me downwards into a horrible pit of nothingness.
I was in a very dark and scary place for a lot of my life, but sometimes it takes a sullen realization to make yourself feel better about certain things.
I'm starting to see the beauty in things and change things if it seems uncomfortable.

I'm thinking that there's always light in the back of my mind, but even though there are clouds covering it at the moment. I'll get better.

Death.
It's said to be the greatest mystery.
That no human has ever truly been there,
And been able to come back to tell of it.
Well,
That may be true,
But Death is not the greatest mystery.

No,
Because that would be life.
It would be to live.
Because no human knows what the future holds for them,
And while in death they may get their answers,
In life they never will.

After all these years
of having pen in hand
Being high on ideas
and low on demand
Writing the same lines
over again and again
Throwing in a new noun
where an old verb had been

There's nothing new
under the sun
The sky is still blue
the North has still won
I still talk with a draw
before I've even begun
In the spitting of words
where I'm just having fun

Never had any problems
deep in my soul
Where the dark side of me
takes over control
A Pulitzer prize
has never once been my goal
I just like to rhyme
with the stories I've told

So if you'll please pardon me
as I get back to my pen
I feel another poem
is trying to let itself in
Like every other time
this is how it begins
After all these years
of having pen in hand