An old man watched the news today,
He heard the news reporter say,
Two journalists have been shot dead,
The old man sadly bowed his head,
And tears slid down his wrinkled face,
For dreams the dead could no more chase,
The woman was a bride to be,
The young man had a family,
How cruel the one who gunned them down,
And left the world in grief to drown,
The old man knew too well the cost,
For he had lived what they had lost.

Night is the time for the old to die,
Weary with long aching bones and sorrows,
Stiff in their muscles and ways,
Slipping down stairs into young memories,
Joyful yelling, puppy love,
Mother's cooking, and wooded glens,
And the sharp pining of broken hearts,
All so crisp,
So clear,
So at odds,
With the dull fog of life,
With eyes that blur,
Words that twist and crack,
The blink of years alone pales to centuries with the other half.

In the web of fate lives a spider,
An eight legged dancer,
Stepping to the rhythm of life,
Every twirl sends a shimmer,
Every leap a shudder,
Shaking,
Shivering,
Always in motion,
And so the web is woven.

The whole of life dances on a knife's edge,
Like a needle balanced on a golden thread.

I know of a great door which has no ****,
No handle to grip, no doorbell to throb,
Long ages I've sat against its base,
And dreamt of the wonders behind its face.

Spinning eye,
Around go I,
On this endless Ferris wheel,
The merry go round,
Has come to town,
To twinkle merrily,
The myriad lights,
All blurred with sound,
As I twirl round and round,
Then with a wistful twist,
It turns to mist,
And all goes tumbling down.

When conscious thought drips from a silver spoon,
And puddles on the floor,
The mind roams free and wanders loose,
To revel in mystery,
It sheds the weight of living flesh,
And dances on the sun,
The tablets of time spin slowly through space,
In a glimmering haze soft spun.