Flickering dim lightbulb mockingly,
Withers and dies ever gracefully.
Fathers verses and mothers eyes,
Empty "I love you's", at least you tried.

I lost my heart with my head in the skies,
These days dreams die short lived, just like mayflies.

I should converse more with my son
stop him recede wider from me
should lose no time to hold him strong
we haven’t exchanged much recently.

Our morning tea must find me a way
to draw him to talk and look at my eyes
seize I must some time every day
so I succeed after a few failed tries.

Our dinner shouldn’t pass silently dull
but spiced with jokes and diary of the day
must break laughter the hardening lull
and ensure on the table a longer stay.

I should converse more with my son
grab all the time could be together
days are shorter and crying to be gone
but the bond we leave must be worth a treasure.

i believe that people
are like those sand paintings
that take years to finish
every shape
and
every color
is there for some reason
some accidental reason
or some intentional one
billions of tiny pieces to create one whole
over time the shapes and colors
may change
because they don't seem to fit,
and with all these grains
to deal with it is a slow process
to try
to make the picture right again
sometimes a wind
blows a section off
we then rebuild that section,
but it doesn't look the same
the whole is altered accordingly
we do this perpetually
until we inevitably
run
out
of the sand given to us
by some unseen hourglass
and then we die
and then the sand is swept through centuries into some giant sandbox as the picture slowly blurs
and dissappears,
until the table-top is cleared
and as the children play and dig
and the wind ripples and churns, eventually
we end up
being barely more than billions
of tiny pieces
in an endless
colorful
sandbox