Years ago,
They used to sleep late
And dance around their kitchen.

Before arthritis and cod liver oil,
Before endless hospital appointments,
Before the cancer devoured his wife.

They had spent their life savings,
On doctors who couldn’t save her life.

Penniless, alone and vulnerable,
He could no longer look after himself.

He stopped existing in a government care home,
With nurses who never smiled
And room mates who stared at the TV,
Like flowers facing the sun.

His children didn’t visit on Sundays,
They were busy sleeping late
And dancing around their kitchens.

In a bus, sat an old couple
and held each other’s hands.
Two hands were clenched together,
as they had when they were just born.

They were at peace with what would arrive,
yet sweaty and energized like they had been
when they played in the green grounds
as little, naive boys.

Six decades of intimacy
running through their minds.
Both chanted and repeated prayers
and wishes for each other and others.

They were mid-desert
but their bond well-irrigated.
Their fields had borne flowers.
And water was plenty.

What had happened was that
a band of robbers had attacked.
They threatened to ****
and so, they did.

Every day, every week, every month, every year;
I try to hold the time in my hands.
But like a mote of dust, they slip through my finger,
reminding me that time will always expand.
Each day, I try to stay true to myself
But my reflection keeps on changing.
Each second I try to live without future in mind,
But my past forever sing me old songs.
I know even my own song will fade away,
like the people who spread rumor,
But until that time come, I continue to lay;
lay down in life oblivious to my future;
in the end, this old song continue to spin through my life.

A shadow at dusk becomes
Two clouds in the night
No moonlit sky
Dust from our surface earth
Most have less worth at times

Amber suns burnt out beyond
This horizon nearly done
Visibility is often said to be earned
The crowds of which chatter
But who lies behind

Tally up Tally **, for a house of old
The race of petulance soon be gone
Some cities fall and people go on
To grow into the next steps
We always call upon the young

A diver, down far too deep for her own good
She fills in the blank spaces with whimsy and dreams,
Gives herself a grandchild here and a good book there,
Perhaps a batch of cupcakes to prove she has life left to live
A hike through the woods to remind her she can be strong
She’s still breathing, isn’t she? She swims down again.

Maybe she dreams herself across a river made of snow
Or transforms into a spider, crawling across ceilings unknown.
She screams from the pulpit, " be brave, have faith, give thanks"
She stands in front of Congress, telling them to get wise.
She returns to her bed, the air too clean- she’s a messenger now
Except she’s forgotten what war she was supposed to wage.

She debates going deeper, to the caverns of her treasure
Where she hasn’t dwindled any since the glory days
Where she can cast aside the constant question of how long to stay.
Uncorroded, she descends until heartache fades from view
Left in the rain for a round or three with eternity, she grins
It’s easier, she insists, to swim than it is to sleep. So she dives.