The sound of the fan is loud.
I am a very tired person.
Time is starting to age.
&
Wine generally tastes good.

Dear mother

Tis world thou hath left
Thy soul in heavens abode
Thy love my only gift
A candle lit in Tis heart
A light to share to all
For my actions to speak
To the needy to give
To wipe a tears few
As thee watch from heavens home
May my life bring thee a smile

He ducks and dives
All across the sky
He flies
Yes, he flies
And this is a life form
This is a means to an end
And this is the name
The name is "Dealer"

And "Dealer" says
"You got-ta
Sor-ta
Think in cartoons
You know
It makes it easier"
And this is only possible
Because of need

So he bobs and weaves
And gladly deceives
He lies
Yes, he lies
Because, in the end
It's a living
That's all

                          By Phil Roberts

A good game needs rules and planning.
Nothing revels humanity so well as the games that play.
Actually you revel yourself best in how you play.
And so it became that.
A truism;
perhaps we are not that original, we are fascinated with the human past. And It's the human future which intrigues us most.
Seems we cannot understand us.
We cannot abide the thoughts of stagnation.
We seek to change into the heart of what we are, but... change into what?
We are hardly original.
Therefore, what will be your rewards?...
For playing the game...

I am the reminiscent glow of warmth in the midst of a light autumn snow: the embers itching for something new to swallow, perhaps another brittle arm of a Douglas Fir or the soaked heart of a Willow, but I wait in agony even if you've been gone for hours because maybe you're just looking for the perfect branch or maybe you've found a new fire to keep you warm?

My skin is nothing but mere ash compacted into a human body, crumbling away with each touch and yet there I was laying next to him after my heart stopped beating with your softening footsteps; he ignited me for a breath and stumbled away for a girl who burns so much brighter than I.

I am a benign fire hazard with a finger curled around an unlit match, salt water drenching its ruby crown and its body straining against my grip, but I can do it myself -- I can keep myself warm if I can only have the will to keep these embers glowing just a bit longer.

Does anything ever mute
The sound of dying men’s screams
Who volunteered to defend
The righteous demands of greedy dreams?
The clouds roll quietly in
And who can tell if it is mist or smoke?
So, this pile of dead humans;
Are they enemies or a sick man’s joke?

Did they know what they were
When they piled into the planes and cars?
Did they have any idea why
They were ordered to march and fly so far?
Were they told they were fighting
For one thing when it was really another?
Were the coerced into uniform
By neighbors, teachers, fathers and mothers?

And when smoke clears each time
Do those that came after them to battle
Find some still lie there dying
So they can listen to the death rattle
Of one more brother or sister
Dying in the mud on their back
From a war that was started
When their nation was never attacked?

Glory and pride are words
That can be used to cover over lies
Like bandages over wounds.
But they don’t mute the mortal cries
Of those who died feeling tricked
About not defending freedom
But for money for the hand-picked.

Labor Day is the only holiday created for  all of the working class
For it is for thanking all of the working classes, for all that they do.
So we can have clean water, or get that great pair of tennis shoes.
For the television or the great looking phones or lab tops we buy.
For without the heart of the great people whom go to their jobs.
Working all to make things work for the people or create great products.
I just wanted each of you hard workers to know we all appreciate you.
For you are the backbone of the united states , I appreciate all that you do.
Just like the people whom work real hard as well your country men and women.
They appreciate all of your hard work but most of all Christ is smiling down at you.