We see life as we were told,
Obstacles in our path may be fiery or cold!
We don't know, what the future holds?
We just write as the moments unfold,
Taking leads from new and old,
We keep writing until our eyes get closed,
Because we never know, when the writings are going to turn into gold...

The windows are open
and the curtains
have been
blowing softly
all day
toward me as if
they are reaching out
for a hug.

The windows are open
and the fan
has been
slowly cooling
the warm autumn
air as it
drifts lazily in
toward me almost
as if
it is looking for
a last embrace.

The windows are open
and the cicadas
are crying
or laughing
or playing
or whatever it is
that a cicada
does
when it sees that
the windows to
a very strange place
are open.

The windows are open
and the goldness
of the sun
makes me sad in
a way that
squeezes my heart
and puts
a sort of
lump
in my throat
and
the coffee I brew
doesn't help
and
the goldness
just saturates
more
and
more
and even more
until
I can't hear
the cicadas
or hear the whisper
of the silky curtain
caressing itself
or the blades
of the fan
trying to slice
the sadness in
the air
before
it
gets
to me.

I placed a pebble upon your grave
A small unblemished stone
And stayed a while, my day to waive
So you were not alone

The yawning sun stretched heavenward
Blinking a weary eye
And rolling under a blanket cloud
That cloaked our world in a silver shroud
It crossed a mourning sky

And kneeling at your earth-made bed
White marble pillow for your head
I talked a while of that and this
And all things in-between,
To ease my burdened heart, remiss
For days you've never seen

In angst and anger at your loss
Oh how I'd gladly gladly toss
Your villain in a stream
And watch them flail and watch them choke
And take a stick and **** and poke
To hear that villain scream --
But only in a dream

Too young to fade, too late to save
Too small your marble stone
I placed a pebble upon your grave
And walked away, alone