Will, there be time enough for me to get done whatever Is left for me to do before this life Is finally through to finish anything I started there are poems of my wife still I have to write
But when all Is said and done to what will be for me then when my writing Is all done and I cannot write any more to what will I do them because I live with the fear of not being able to write
For writing to me about my wife has become like an addiction a necessary need to write every day If I miss a day feel I've failed just got to write every spare moment
I have In a day total dedication devotion an undying love for my sweetheart even though she gone I live her, breath her every second of the day she Is In my thoughts
I live for her memory It's the only way I know how to survive In a world I'm no longer happy In I knew the day l lost her my whole world would crumble because she was so ill I'd feared losing her for years
But tried to push the thought to the back my mind but the eventually the Inevitable happened and she was gone my whole world gone with her no fairy tale ending no sitting together In retirement on a porch watching the sun go down or watching flying geese across the morning sky
I'm struggling to comes terms of the loss or maybe I don't want to perhaps It's that I'm comfortable to live In sadness because at least she still with me If I were to cure grief completely I'd lose her I don't want to do that
Will I have enough time to finish what I started In life
Love is a battlefield we are flying arrows when we hit flesh and one more soldier is down to the ground heavily armed with dreadful hopes in hand dead are they then alive they become as their blood are pouring down like milk as they go down in hysterical laughter they finally make it we become merely objects cutting sharp whoever is on site, we don’t know what the **** we are doing. but who is shooting us at the enemy? who has sharpened us till we bleed? thrown our strengths in the fire drown them into the water ‘til our wooden bodies get tired then break as they get finished? chanting at fate’s face the only thing we have held until that very moment that once and for all cheaters conquer the world good ones make it to the finish line.
I feel like love is not our battle. We participate but it isn’t up to us, it happens without our hands involved. Love is something greater than ourselves.
Emptiness has built a home I inhabit trapped inside my shell If I remain here at least I'll make it look a little less like **** My thoughts form with cohesive structure Dancing with clumsy pictures that slice and puncture Do the words I am saying make any sense? Or are they just ramblings of a mind depressed? Closing in towards the end of strength and will The finish line seems further still No one near cheering me on As I stumble this one-man marathon