A couple, with a couple of sticks
Walking in convoy
Wearing out disjointed joints
To distribute the pain of future loss
Weapons of choice
They carry no voice
Only the weight of their owners
Who, thanks to the sticks, will live to walk another day

Alone in the crowd,
In that secluded corner.
Separate, except for all the other people.
We sat and shared a meal and the time for each other.
In the throng, buried in the silence of the noise.
It was good to be together
Apart from this world.
That, is love.

To those who do
And those that don’t
Life is the same, one imagines
One does
One plays
One stays
The night away
Only to dream of the next time
Those that do, do
Those that don’t, won’t
Life is complicated
But still it goes on.
Sometimes I think
Do we have a choice?
Sometimes, I think so.

Poetry is a dangerous thing
It can make your head sing
It can make your mind zing

Beware the depths it finds
In our vulnerable minds

Take care how you give
Those words that live

Try to lower down slow
So the spirit doesn’t sink so low

Still the truth it may find
To bridge our connected mind

This is such a responsibility
That I hesitate to test
The effect on life’s fragility