They stay vigil, ever waiting the new design of sigils.
Kinda simple, keep their fingers pressed to pimples,
The pus a pit of petered parts,
Perceived by the reckoning of depleted hearts.
I rushed the doors at the sound of a great escape,
The process a repeat coordination of hurry up and wait.
Ever balking at the atrocities of cost,
Average Joes chasing dreams at the velocity of sloths.
How to be content with immense disparity?
Hands out faking quivers, shaking for some charity.
Forsaken someones somewhere surviving on a sliver,
Watching all the getters, I see myself a giver.

In those days we kept a vigil
By his bed,
Holding his hand as he withered
On the vine, and we imagined his life
As something which, down the line, slithered
Inaudibly into the long grass, uncomplaining.
Outside, it was raining.
‘Just a few more days’, we said
‘Then there will be sunshine, no more rain.’
Was he in pain?

We never knew;
He lay still, quietly, there.
Perhaps we did not care?
But no, surely we did;
I’d like to think we did.

The ‘few more days’ turned to years,
Then decades, centuries,
And still he lay.
And still he lies
Today.

In many different tongues, each one love's manifestations,
Some even to me unknown until the very moment,expressed,
I keep talking to you, my divine lover,out of my passion,intense
For you brimming within. Distraught a bit, feeling left in the lurch
On pouring rain and thunder storm; but you know how firm I am!
I stood rooted here, lost all sense of time, queer, ever  felt you near.
Then a sharp pain hit weakening my heart ,but couldn't deter me,
I am a cat of nine love lives, a species so stubborn, thrives in trust.
Dead of night it is , I  keep vigil, perking up ears, eyeing  skywards,
How do I know from, where would my only love, to me speak?

Easter Vigil, Sort Of

A vigil, no, simply quiet reflection
Minutes before midnight, with all asleep
Little Liesl-Dog perhaps dreams of squirrels,
For she has chased and barked them all the day;
The kittens are disposed with their mother
After an hour of kitty-baby-talk,
Adored by all, except by Calvin-Cat,
That venerable, cranky old orange hair-ball,
Who resents youthful intrusion upon
His proper role as object of worship.
All the house settles in for the spring night,
Anticipating Easter, early Mass,
And then the appropriately pagan
Merriments of chocolates and colored eggs
And children with baskets squealing for more
As children should, in the springtime of life.

The tides of time flow beneath my feet
Rippling and flowing uncertainty
I am fish in the waters of constant change
Unpredictable ain't it strange

Will I be eaten by my disability?
Devoured by the shark like features of my own mind?
The stormy waves inside my heart
Will not just depart

The sea the tides of time
Hide my lost treasure sinking in the deep forever
Atlantis a lost city in a watery graveyard
Rusting away
rotten ships
Drowning wreckage of lost sailors

the waves hold a watery vigil
a siren like fate waits
For me with a lover who could save me
or cast me into the murky depths
Maybe the seas of time are all our tears combined
throughout time inside are all our aspirations we cast our nets for
and still we cry more than we catch
So the seas are maintained
For us to sail on...

Yonder burns the vigil,  that beacon that guides me ever closer to the hearth where I once lain the burden of my  innocence with another on that faux bare skin rug. If only I could reclaim it, but only to surrender it again.

Standing alone
Watching time tick by
Hearing the world spin
Seeing silence
I am at peace
With nature
And she
Is at peace
With me
Not a whisper of wind
Through the oaks
No stir from the man
Hiding in the Moon
I have never been
So close
To Heaven
And so far
From life
The stars and constellations
Are nearer now
Than ever before
I can touch them
Feel the hot
In the blackness
We perceive as cold
I know
Why I am here
I was born
To be silent
To touch the cosmos
To feel the icy heat
Of a shooting star
Zipping next to my ear
I am the Watcher
And the Listener
I cannot change the Universe
All I can do
Is observe
The infinitely finite landscape
Around me

They do not know that we remember them here,
Their names and faces locked in our hearts
Each one a smiling, could-be-me,
An everybody.

They cannot see that we seek peace in their name,
Their death has birthed a unique grief,
The painful realisation that death waits patiently nearby,
Demanding to know why?

They will not feel the love and hope that holds us in this place,
The nods from passing strangers, of every faith and race,
The friendships forged from tragedy, connections made through pain,
Arms linked in shared communion, and hands held though pouring rain.