Dreary eyed and worn tired,
On last legs, to stand defiant
Against the falling away of time,
Heavy handed and unceasing.

I remember.

Through the haze of blue white mist,
A familiar feeling,
A perceiving glance,
Breaks forth a spring of fresh thought
That flows down the back of my mind
To whet the stone,
And let memory sharpen.

I remember.

Restored from grey depths
Of dismal slumber;
To stand tall once more,
And seize the joy and pain
That first wove it into me.

I remember.

To hold that moment at times edge,
And share it once more
with the heart's palette.
To give colour to thought,
And meaning to the mind.

I remember.

And so the memory carries on
Till the stone is dry,
And the blade is weak and worn.
The withered thought, falls to rest
Under the pauper's headstone.

...Remember?

Children should not be left to cry alone.

They need someone beside them, even if it won't solve the problem. [Many problems cannot be solved.]

They need someone to stroke their hair and hold their hand,
to dry their tears and wipe their snotty noses.
They need someone to tell them it is going to be ok, even when it isn't going to be ok. [Especially when it isn't going to be ok.]

There is a little girl crying alone.

She does not muffle the sound of her crying. She wants her parents to hear.
She thinks that if they hear her crying, they will finally understand, and they will make everything alright.
Or maybe they will stroke her hair and hold her hand. [That would be alright.]

They don't come.

Maybe they can't hear her. Maybe they're busy. Maybe they didn't notice. [Maybe they don't care.]

They aren't coming.

The little girl's tears trickle off her cheeks,
making her pillow damp,
making her skin sticky with the salt. [She falls asleep.]

They don't come.

[There is a young woman crying in her childhood bedroom. Briefly, she worries about the embarrassment of her parents finding her here, crying like a little girl. They don't come. She laughs.]

When the end is near
The lights turn off
And the sky turns black
Will you stay my dear?

When the end is near
The animals start to run
And the wind gets stronger
Will you stay my dear?

When the end is near
The people around us are all gone
And we hear nothing but silence
Will you stay my dear?

you used to sit on me and swing  
cry and swing  
laugh and swing  
tell me of your dreams and fears  
and love,  
as we slipped back and forth  
through the air  
hung from the strong branches  
of our tree  

the ground beneath me  
well worn dirt, surrounded by grass  
The evidence of our days  
and hours  
carving out the earth together  

I am still here,  
tethered to this tree and waiting  
the ground beneath me  
growing greener and more empty  

sometimes you will come  
and sit on me again  
and swing,  
the beauty of purpose  
flooding through me for a moment  

but now when you swing  
it is mostly quiet  
like you are here but I am not  
you do not speak to me,  
do not dig in your heels and toes  
scrape the dirt and push off-
the ground beneath me  
forgets your feet as soon as you are gone  

and I am still here,  
tethered to this tree and waiting  
the ground beneath me  
growing green and empty

Empty room echoes,
Silent phone, no texts to share,
Lonely heart whispers.

isolation has its familiarity,
as happiness is a drug
yet not as addicting as
misery.

I woke up alone
And to tell you the truth,
I fell asleep that way too.

But then
The in-between.

I stood at my kitchen window
And I heard the distant voices
And forgot for a moment

The way you’d forget a kettle on the stove
But here I am now,
The whistling in my ears
Shrieking in a syncopated curse,
Alone again alone again alone again alone again alone again

my empty couch
just stares at me
wondering why I won’t sit down
since you left