I hated her,
And she must've hated me.

Otherwise, why would she leave?
With her bright smiles,
And twinkling eyes,
Her innocence.

I have jaded eyes,
My bones heavy,
I have seen the horrible,
The ugly,
The lie,
That comes from this world.

She has not.
She was still young,
She was still hopeful,
She was protected.

She, who's smiling in the picture,
She, who looked so much like me,
She, who was nothing like me.
Gone, and lost.

Tell me,
How do I get her back?
Tell me,
So I can build a time machine.
Tell me,
So I can be her again.

I Am Comprised
Not of stars
Or of seas
Or of trees
But of leaves
Because I fade
And will Fall
To these
Winter winds

an inner conflict dust brew
within this scribe, who offers ye to chew
(like sweet treats metaphorically) thee do
tee incumbent, when Doomsday clock
     counts down minutes few

according Al Gore rhythm  
     unstoppably ticking,
     when life gets turned to global goo
tenderized viz Doctor Zeus

     if not Horton Hears Hoo
then most definitely The Lorax
     (couching urgent morals underscored
     by satellite photographs

     showing melting icecaps or igloos,
which planetary sos, sans in extremis
     requires joint effort of Gentile and Jew,
plus every other sectarian credo,

     dogma, ethos...knew
clear family, and whatnot
     to become linkedin with Linda Loo
yes, we moost not forget

     Old McDonald with his moo
moo there bovine creatures
     agedly hobbling along, or new
lee born, cuz juiced one day

     per three hundred and sixty five
     (six with leap year -
     imagine dragons festooned leotard
     with brand name Oroblu)

or poor ole Whinny The  Pooh
eternally stuck in Rabbit's
     hole sum Hutch as a queue
doth loosely form dreaming up and rue

mien hating solution
     (burning the midnight oil) true
lee trying to remedy plight
     of said bear character,

     perhaps unstated message being woo
king in tandem solutions to resolve
     wretched condition of world wide web
     possible by bridging differences
     between me and you, and you, and you...

The moment you worry
About the days which are gone
You create the current warry
About what you couldn't control

you,

will always be

someone else’s

“what could have been.”

dont forget that.