the small wooden floor room
where she spreads her trinkets
her mystery box spells and
potions in tiny bottles
she lay there amidst her tokens and treasures
and sings softly along with a song
that plays in the distance
on a radio
a song that speaks to her of simpler times
and beautiful people
of a better world we all left behind decades ago
a world she could rejoin if she belived hard enough
the days when she holds enough hope
there is a smile
and she faces out towards the sun
but i dread the days when
she captures a glance at the reflection
of her fast vanishing days
and how little things have changed in her life
her smile is gone on thouse days
her face is a shadow
i must carry her through
days like that she needs my strength
to keep from getting trapped
the crisp blue skies
frame the giant oak tree that we lay under
leaves float down here and there
with vivid fall color
you can taste fall in the air
you can feel it in the texture of her conversation
as she talks of hallows eve
and Christmas
William Tell
Ivanhoe and Chaucer
its the season for dinner theater
its the season for a bottle of red wine in the sand
by the river
and the tales to be told
grand ventures to be undertaken
in bold and fast words alone
she takes your hand
and with a deep smile touches your lips
with her fingertip
and begins to speak
but you never get to hear what she would have said
you awaken sheets soaked in sweat
twenty years on
and she still visits you near every night
sometimes its her on the beach where she died
sometimes its the weeks that lead up to that
godforsaken day
twenty years
twenty years
twenty years
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 2:53 PM UTC
the small wooden floor room
where she spreads her trinkets
her mystery box spells and
potions in tiny bottles
she lay there amidst her tokens and treasures
and sings softly along with a song
that plays in the distance
on a radio
a song that speaks to her of simpler times
and beautiful people
of a better world we all left behind decades ago
a world she could rejoin if she belived hard enough
the days when she holds enough hope
there is a smile
and she faces out towards the sun
but i dread the days when
she captures a glance at the reflection
of her fast vanishing days
and how little things have changed in her life
her smile is gone on thouse days
her face is a shadow
i must carry her through
days like that she needs my strength
to keep from getting trapped
the crisp blue skies
frame the giant oak tree that we lay under
leaves float down here and there
with vivid fall color
you can taste fall in the air
you can feel it in the texture of her conversation
as she talks of hallows eve
and Christmas
William Tell
Ivanhoe and Chaucer
its the season for dinner theater
its the season for a bottle of red wine in the sand
by the river
and the tales to be told
grand ventures to be undertaken
in bold and fast words alone
she takes your hand
and with a deep smile touches your lips
with her fingertip
and begins to speak
but you never get to hear what she would have said
you awaken sheets soaked in sweat
twenty years on
and she still visits you near every night
sometimes its her on the beach where she died
sometimes its the weeks that lead up to that
godforsaken day
twenty years
twenty years
twenty years
"potions in tiny bottles" and "soapbox man" are not related in any manner except the both employ the image of a small wood floor room (the room i am writing in)
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