"intercepted" poems
awakening with the gradual rise
of the subdued heather hued sun
a palpable spectral silence permeated the air
the anticipation of celebration intercepted
by an enveloping phantom black malaise
hiding in obscure shadows
the terror of the twin towers final doom
elucidated quivers of melancholic nuances
rippling through the greying vicinity
my birthday september 11th a tuesday
my night to sing at abravanel hall
with the utah symphony
unable to serenade death
our voices remained indubitably silenced
in hushed wistful reverence
ensuing 9/11s channel somber sentiments
cloaked with annihilation while
dark visions occupy smudged iphone screens
this anniversary i will dissipate despair
transmuting dark despondency
splashing all with lucent petals of delight
i’ll live this day with passionate intensity
and those subsequent with equal ardor
ferociously painting back the light
i will raise my voice with effervescence
and sing in wild abandon
for my precious brothers that were lost
demonstrating devotion through a refusal
to be silenced by fear bestowing honor
with a conspicuous message that love wins
©2016janetaylor
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 6:22 PM UTC
You have no idea
What it's like, to be a woman
Everyday is a baptism by fire
As she walks on the street
Hundred hands appear
From nowhere, as if conjured
By a deft flick
Of a magician's wand
A magician who sends chills
Down the length of her spine
Chills that surpass even those
On a wintry night in Antarctica
Leaving her frozen
Till every bone stands still
As she is stripped of her dignity
Reduced to a shadow of her self
She strains every sinew in her throat
As she sends out a distress signal
Which fails to be intercepted
As the people look on
Some with fear
Some with sheer indifference
Some with a perverse interest
But none answer the call of duty
The call which is as basic
As the need for oxygen
You have no idea
What it's like, to be a woman
As she heads home
Seeking much needed solace
She is instead upbraided
For wearing a short skirt
For walking alone in the night
For not being a lady
As she fails to get support
From the family she holds dear
As a shipwreck survivor
Barely floating in freezing waters
Clings on to that piece of wood
Her self-esteem nosedives
Like that fateful Air India flight
That crashed at Mangalore
And shifts the blame onto herself
For not understanding the men
Who've brought her to this state
And succumbs to Stockholm Syndrome
Completing a vicious circle
Leaving men and the patriarchy winners
Winners who deserve the title
As much as a student
Who clears his trimesters
Using bits of paper
Tucked neatly inside his shoes
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 1:20 AM UTC
As the Mohawks straddle the goal line
We hold our breaths.
We need a win under our belts,
And this is the most important game of all.
I feel the tension in my stomach,
Now in my hand,
As you take it into yours.
Normally I would be thinking of you
But we are so focused on this touchdown
"Hike!" Shouts number 7, and there it goes.
Caught by 22.
Almost intercepted,
But not quite.
We go wild.
Hearts pounding
Mohawk fans cheering
We won.
You grab me in a huge embrace and
I can't breathe
But its not because you're holding me too tightly.
Together.
Without thought:
Thought of consequence
Thought of the future
Thought of pain
Thought of who is watching,
You kiss me right there and then
And even though your eyes are closed
I still see the blue in my mind from moments before,
Letting me know that it is okay to dive in.
As the cheering roar dies out
I see that blue again
Confused and happy
Or is that me?
On this homecoming night
We won
And I'm not talking about the team.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 9:07 PM UTC
My peach yogurt tastes like your skin
in the morning when you used to stay
at my apartment, the leftover sweat
of a night spent loving each other,
and the sun slipping through my *****
blinds, while I'm eating my breakfast
at my desk checking emails, always peeking
over at you, bare-chested, snoring
through the sound of my fan and my music
turned down extra low.
It's five months later and my peach yogurt
tastes strangely like that iced tea
I had instead of liquor on the night my friends
threw a party in my living room, us
sneaking off to my bedroom just to kiss
ourselves through another evening
we'd rather spend in our underwear watching
a movie over smiling in group pictures
or dancing to cheap country music.
It's so much later and my yogurt
still tastes a little bitter, a little sour
on my tongue as I try to swallow
a breakup that's bigger than a jawbreaker.
It still kind of tastes like the bottom
of my sink as I put my dishes in it
just to wake you up, watch you
get dressed in a pair grey sweatpants,
sticky hair that I'd comb through.
It's far too late for me to think about
your hand in mine as we'd walk
as far as we could before we'd have to separate.
It's far too late and far too many people
have intercepted your memories and turned
them into something new to smile about,
but today I pulled the lid off the container
and licked the silver side clean
just to be reminded of how sweet
things like you used to taste.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 6:56 PM UTC
Venus eye trap please
Accept my humblest apologies
for allowing these normally perfectly well behaved pupils
To rove carelessly across this shuddering carriage
And interlock with your own
For just a fraction
Of a moment
Too long.
From two rows ahead
On the 42 bus.
Through no fault of my own I was caught off guard by a sudden and unexpected spike in interest,
That caused my eyes, hypnotized
To run their boorish and misogynistic fingers over the gleaming contours of your beautiful
Ivory toothed smile.
Stolen goods. Simply intercepted.
Not delivered to this godforsaken countenance
But to the infinitely more charming
Disembodied voice at the end of the line
Invisible, omnipotent
He's just shared with you what must be the best joke ever told by man.
Yes! I greedily consumed the ill-gotten merchandise and shamefully enjoyed it.
Quivering with benign, desperate exhilaration like the man whose jaw is slowly locking around the cold and tasteless barrel of a gun.
Press no charge. It won't happen again.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 5:40 AM UTC
Summer's still here, it's nearing fall
Worldwide excitement, it's FOOTBALL!
This season starts the fans are wild
Time for the game, the players are riled
All in orange, tailgating before
Manning takes field, the crowd they roar
Toss the coin, we will receive
Want ball at half, won't deceive
They punt real high just watch it soar
Takes a knee, the twenty, no more
The blazing sun, outside it's hot
Cold beer and dogs, the fans they bought
The first pass is incomplete
Groans from throng and stomping feet
The second play, under control
Our running back finds a huge hole
First down their forty yard line
Thus far we are doing fine
The ball snaps and Peyton drops back
Four man rush, he's down for the sack
One more pass it's intercepted
To the fans this is unexpected
Out comes the opposing team
What's this, for Manning they scream
It's Eli in his red, white and blue
This is too much, you feel it too
Brothers face off in a game
Greatness is all in the name
Both teams run, tackle, hit hard and pass
Tied game, seconds left, do we come in last The field goal squad must do their best
Prader lines up, misses all in jest
OVERTIME :-)
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
i have spent all this weekend
building voodoo dolls
out of belly-button lint,
newspaper clippings, pipe cleaners,
and tufts of my own hair.
They all have names.
The Fearless Lemming.
Odenkirk.
Mr. Tweezles.
Vexorg, the Merciless.
Bob.
*Forgive me father, for i have sinned
and i liked it...*
Vexorg, true to his name,
slew the Lemming in single combat.
It was...disturbing, at best,
and quite messy.
Mr. Tweezles betrayed his sacred
post as medicine man,
poisoning Vexorg with krokodil.
I thought Odenkirk would
exhibit strength of character,
but he fled in the night
like a ***** most likely
in fear of Bob.
Mr. Tweezles should have paid attention
to that turn of events.
Bob fancied himself an attorney,
and Mr. Tweezles thought
himself clever and indestructible.
i am Dark Helmet,
playing puppet-master
with my dolls,
red-handed
intercepted.
Today's horoscope:
Fear death by stupidity.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 7:21 PM UTC
Geometric Considerations and Nomenclature for Reflectance, U. A march section in B flat minor follows.
Cordelia is nervous about her father's tax position but does not tell the others. Japan's Olympic judo team.
Rehberg married his high school sweetheart, Jan, a water attorney who represents farmers and ranchers. In four games, he had been sacked 23 times and had a pass intercepted 12 times.
Eastern Europe, and conspired to spread communism throughout the world. There are 55 schools in Kortrijk, on 72 different locations throughout the city, with an estimated 21,000 students. Go through all tools, materials, and so forth in the plant and work area.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 7:25 AM UTC
He gave me bracelets
made from his palm prints
amid the disorienting darkness
of my faltering consciousness.
No!
With ease he intercepted the
weak, desperate blows my hands
my only weapons
failed to deliver at full force
during my precious seconds
in an unhinged awareness
of hazy drugs and alcohol.
And like a gentleman
he fastened his hands
around my wrists pretending
it were decorative jewelry despite
how they pinned back my hands
my last line of defense
like iron shackles before
another blackout became my cell.
His palm print bracelets
still encircle my wrists.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 12:36 AM UTC
I'm just a lonely fool
Don't know what to say so I act like a tool
though my words speak volumes
my mind speaks in tongues
all tangled up by some tough knots
my ideas are more realistic
always fleeting never staying
being intercepted by themselves
my mind ravishes ghouls
and explores the emptiness within
taken back by thy hollowed self
Earth only with one layer
Lithosphere but no juicy center
a lollipop with only a crusty beginning
body without heart only mind
depth like an ocean
never ending like the space above
pointless with no one exploring
breaking open barriers only to find fiends
through the looking glass all is bright
the eyes seek redemption and explanation
but they're Romeo and Juliet
can't see each other
Caves without torches hides the secrets of old
and only the mind can grasp hold
Know nothing want everything
just leave me alone
its what the monsters are best at.
Apr 15, 2012
Apr 15, 2012 at 4:36 AM UTC
Jack Cornwell was a Boy, First Class
On the Chester’s forward gun,
There to relay the settings with
A pair of headphones on,
He’d turned sixteen just months before
Was trained for his chosen task,
And hoped for a life of adventure as
He sailed, before the mast.
The Chester sailed to join the Fleet
That had left from Scapa Flow,
The Grand Fleet with its battleships
Sailed under Jellicoe,
They’d intercepted the German codes
And knew that they’d put to sea,
Hoping to split the British Fleet
And gain a victory.
The Chester turned to meet the flash
Of gunfire, far away,
The light was poor before the dawn
And the mist was thick that day,
Three funnels of a German ship
Came gliding through the mist,
And the Chester turned to starboard
Ready to show the British fist.
But the German ship was not alone
And the shells began to rain,
From the following battle cruisers
Shattering decks, in blood and pain,
Jack Cornwell stood at his post while all
His gun crew lay there dead,
Ready to take his orders, though
The Chester turned, and fled.
The medics found him with shrapnel wounds
Steel splinters in his chest,
He wouldn’t desert his post, he was
As brave as all the rest,
The Chester sailed for Immingham
Disembarked the wounded crew,
Put Jack in Grimsby Hospital,
There was nothing they could do.
He died just two days afterwards
Before his mother came,
She’d hurried on up from London
Where she’d caught the fastest train,
They buried Jack in a communal grave
So many men had died,
Fighting for King and country
Steeped in duty, worth and pride.
His name was honoured from lip to lip
How he’d stood beside his gun,
Determined to fight the German ships
‘Til the Chester turned to run,
Such courage born of England
Where it was tempered at the forge,
Was so inspiring in one so young
Said the Navy, to King George.
‘For shame,’ then cried the ‘Daily Sketch’
When they heard of the communal grave,
‘Is this how we treat our heroes,
Jack deserves the nation’s praise!’
The coffin was shortly disinterred
And draped with the Union Jack,
Drawn on an open gun carriage
With the Navy at its back.
His name went down in the history books
As the boy who stuck to his post,
In the midst of dead and dying men
As they made their way to the coast,
King George conferred the highest award
That there was, for bravery,
Awarded him the Victoria Cross,
Jack Cornwell, Boy, V.C.
David Lewis Paget
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 3:16 AM UTC
At his face it got harder to stare
But in his truth he would glower
Into this looking glass
That looks right back
At the years of age
That washed his face
Over that disgraced fortnight
and it’s dragging scrape
What was his counted,
that ruffling came natural
In a sentiment of the innate
and the inner mechanics of his climate
Co-Walkers, he thought viewed him a cynics ornate
From then on, became perpetually discounted
Though his face got harder to look at
by its contents,
Optics inflamed
and wrinkles elongated
to his whiskers growing skyward
a striking true spruce in essence to become
Nevertheless a bedraggled authentic
Just before a flooding pooled his lids
or the dawning of his tears
Until this vanish to enhance
These characters took on relevance
Apropos of what he saw looking back
The girl, his love, the spirit inside his drive
She could see all directions, like hands on a clock,
Every hour the dialed sun would tower
Giving her all his angles,
She could anticipate all of this,
including all opposites
She could see all that
To her,
His face was not hard to stare
Still chiseled but shaved,
like polished marble glare
Her love was true for years
Opposing claims would be intercepted when asked if during she dabbled in deception
Then immediately accepted their quiz, taking near comfort as she’s done for years placing her lips closer to his eyes,
she kissed his cheek and licked his tears
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 11:08 PM UTC
What does it mean
to be accepted
when my sense of self
is intercepted?
Is it still the same
do you still belong
If they all like you
but it all feels wrong?
Identity is
being individual
but what’s the point
if it’s all for their vigil?
Isn’t it ironic
to feel secure
we try to belong
to someone else’s couture?
In conclusion I’d say
if identity you forfeit
you’re hiding yourself,
you’re wearing a corset.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 2:58 AM UTC
the gleaming moon shined its light
the shadow of doubt intercepted
an omen of a stormy night
the stars took shelter among the clouds
the lantern of faith stood steady
so with it my soul withstood
the turbulence of tragedy
confused but never scared
i held onto the lantern of faith
days passed with no respite
i pondered suicide
as the only way out
then the mountains echoed
standing tall and brave in their glory
coming to rescue my gloomy spirit
the lantern of faith stood steady
the storm eventually passed by...
have faith oh restless spirit
the lantern is your own soul
and you are your own light.....
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 7:30 AM UTC
Braving lapses in neon dreams
You don’t like the look of air max 90’s
Besotted language intercepted not digested
The babble of youths who don’t talk correctly
Basking loosely in nonchalant demise
The **** on the floor, what a mess
Buttoned lips insinuating nothing decisive
You are hard eyed from men outside the pub, you look away at
Bluebottles lying inside neatly dead
Get me off this ******* bus.
Black lines, interrupting nothing deep
Why always black and never red
Broad landscapes intrude narrowness, delicately
But you close your eyes and hum the cure
Breaking laughter, ignorant nuisances drain
I wish they all were quiet and tame
Berating loud intuitive noises, djembe
Banging hands against the glass
Banging, lightning, ignored, deleted
There’s a fight going on, you will stay seated
Buried liquidized imagery, naturally dancing
The reflection of drama in a window behind you
Because listening is not done
You think about dinner and where you will buy it
Because light is no fun
You again close your eyes and think about home
Busy lovers inseparable never daring
You enjoy your thoughts
Being left in near darkness
You enjoy your thoughts
Watching interesting things happen
Eventually yelping even shouting trill howls
After the watch, offset retina kicks
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 11:33 AM UTC
An idea comes to haunt
Where did it come from
Unaware of its existence
Lingering somewhere
When it entered the mind
Parallel thoughts
Maybe, was in your mind
Attracting the idea
Ideas seeking ideas
Intercepted by the intellect
Two entities combine
To form one idea
It’s in the mind
Which hovers within
One idea
That can make a difference
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 9:45 AM UTC
What's with this world we're livin in?
Why's it constantly throwing hate our way
when the love is where we're givin in?
I'm never dismissive when
it's comes to letting my thoughts speak
plenty of replenishin when getting caught beneath
the neural pathways of my mind
I've let go of the bad days
that I used to be livin in for some time
used to be blind to the rat race
ended up being consumed by every inch of it
these minutes got me seeking higher consciousness
I'm just trying to build my dreams up into these monuments
that my brain has shown me
all these promises of potential that they always spoke of it seems to have changed the way I think and grown on me
I'm home only to feel like this place is no longer feeling *****
in my zone roaming
around feeling the vibrations in the sounds
and never understanding how
they could feel lonely when they're a piece of the galaxy like you and me now
and forever
I'm better off severing my thought
process with clever lines
feel the positive vibrations through my heart, mind
and soul
I piece together the truths as the time unfolds
try to keep the mind open but sometimes it can be more closed
than you think
that's why I grab the pen and let my brain sync with the ink
break the chains that hold together your mentality and think
about the possibility of radically
changing the way you truly view reality
that point where you begin to question
all the things you've ever learned
at that point in time the mind has turned
into a different leveling system
and although it may seem a little overwhelming
don't be concerned
embrace it and listen
open your mind and learn how society can seem to be so basic
I've been quietly patient for so long
it seemed my dreams started to look shapeless
that's when I made a makeshift bridge
in the paper spaces and realized I could be the creator
of any projection from inside
to discover myself as I uncover what was left on the shelf
many years ago
along with other things
other ideas and other dreams
traded for simple jobs that make me wanna close my eyelids and dream
a legend once said I wanna sing until freedom rings
a question once intercepted made me notice things when I couldn't see my dreams
clouded by mental perception and incidental mis-direction
why do we all seem to search for others acceptance before we look first at our own inner connections
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 12:32 PM UTC
Your touch melts my skin
Seconds passed as the sunset sinks
Your pipe blew me breeze
Different night but same old routine
Sitting by this window pane
Interacting alone with selfless pain
Why have you brought me here again
In this dark space empty terrain
Please give me an answer
I'm desperate to ask questions
Mind intercepted while words devoured
Disconnecting me from your reality
My heart just want to keep me real
@2014 Maman Screams
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 9:27 AM UTC
An encounter
that shook the stars
made them shoot across
the sky, urging lovers
to throw wishes
here and there
with no hope in mind
She time-traveled at his "hello"
he shook at her reply
what happened to the cosmos?
could they have re-arranged?
what magical power took over the Earth
to make gravity none-existent?
She felt weightless
but heavy with her past
he sweat out all his mistakes
or was his body too close to her sun
that he melted at her sight
He wanted to speak almanacs of his years past
but choked at the dense night sky
his lungs shrunk in capacity
his mind forgot the ability to verbalize
vocalize,
his mind forgot all sense of language
except that of none-verbal nature
She wanted to strangle him
with the chains that left marks on her heart
the wounds that she turned to beautiful tattoos
the pickled emotions she had left on that shelf
in a desolate basement
She wanted to give him a taste
of what "hurt" felt like back then
and how it morphed her into a beautiful
thick skinned creature, fearless of rollercoasters
who's highs are intoxicating and who's lows
are deadly
But..
He...
Her...
Hell visited Earth that day
all its fires burned all sense of logic
turned emotions to ashes
it anesthetized what drives the heart
into overdrive
The universe confused its laws of physics
gravity lost, oxygen reduced, weightlessness ruled
everyone was high
Something was wrong
it didn't feel like it was happening
She had her taste of inception
a dream within a dream within
a mind diluted with nothing but sobriety
how could this be?
He was speaking in intervals
cut with silences that caused earthquakes in meaning
intercepted with glares that burned the wildest of wild fires
Life you threw one hell of a curveball
that changed the orbit of her being
Turning her the other way
slowing down time
or so it felt
What the hell is happening
She has this under control
When her schizophrenic selves
came out to play
they failed miserably
She gawked at
his jittery hands
eyes
dilated with confusion
glazed with hesitation
filled with questions
surreal
ethereal
not happening
pinch me
Please
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 3:43 AM UTC
The hanging star
falls to the west,
the heavens and earth
become one
and cue our travels.
Hazy smears of pink and orange
spilt the horizon
from the approaching darkness.
The road melts into shadows.
The celestial bodies awaken.
The sky goes black.
The past is put further
and further behind us
and can be seen in the
mirrors that watch our back.
We simply aviate between
two collided worlds.
Our eyes can only pick up
the yellow lights
rushing by port side
and red lights
that we pursue.
Vehicles of other travelers
searching for rest.
In the distance the lights
of a small city
are speckled
strategically in the black.
They tell us
where the earth ends
and the sky begins.
White and yellow lines
draw our course.
We fly through the black.
Faster now.
The illuminated city peeks
in and out
of flint covered silhouettes.
It comes closer
with every intercepted minute.
Our compass points north
and we chase the arrow
until we find our final stop.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC
Underneath the surface,
the earth is the microwave.
We are the engine, we are the heat wave.
May 19, 2020
May 19, 2020 at 4:35 AM UTC
Standing by the rodeo bleachers a cowboy named Stan
Watches the penned bulls with his bull rope in his hand.
The cowboy is trying to get his nerves to subside
Because his turn is next for his eight second ride.
The cowboy freezes and stares in awe,
As he hears the announcement of his luck of the draw.
The cowboy’s fear flows like the ebbing tide.
He tilts his hat and plans his eight second ride.
The bull he has drawn is mean and wild.
This cowboy has drawn a monster named Flower Child.
The cowboy stares at the majestic creature in the shoot;
He knows if he can stay on this bull, he will win all the loot.
The cowboy moves toward his nemesis with a long fast stride.
He climbs on the gate and readies himself for his eight second ride.
Flower Child is also ready and dances side to side with pride,
Ready to make this seem like the longest ever of his eight second rides.
The cowboy slowly mounts Flower Child from the side,
Wraps the rope around his hand and raises the other to signal ready for his eight second ride.
There aren’t many rules that the cowboy must abide,
But he must keep his free hand up and high for his eight second ride.
ONE: The bull jumps from the shoot all four legs off the ground.
Before its legs touch down Flower Child has spun completely around.
TWO: Airborne again Flower Child turns to the left and jumps to the right.
After a complete spin his hind legs hit the ground with a jolting might.
THREE: Jumping up, the bull comes down like a charge of TNT causing the cowboy to slide.
Trying to keep his balance and not end his ride, the cowboy shifts from side to side.
FOUR: Flower Child spins in a circle, like a dog chasing its tail,
As he turns, his hind legs kick up trying to make the cowboy bail.
FIVE: Flower Child, as if set to music, dances to and fro,
Jumping up and down he tries to give the cowboy a throw.
SIX: Moving left then spinning right the bull become airborne.
The cowboy is thrown forward, very close to the horns.
SEVEN: Flower Child begins to spin, spin, spin.
The cowboy’s hat flies off in the wind.
EIGHT: The sound of the whistle hits his ear,
And now there is a new fear.
The cowboy sits on top of this beast all alone.
There is no escape, there is no help; he must get off this monster on his own.
With the bull flying high, the cowboy throws his leg to the side.
In a cloud of dust he hits the dirt hard ending his eight second ride.
The bull snorts and saliva flies as he charges the cowboy that’s down,
But he is intercepted by a wild and crazy colorful clown.
Running, the cowboy grabs his hat and into the fence he collides.
On the other side of the fence he dust himself off and gets ready for his next eight second ride.
STANLEY HENDRIX
05/2008
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 8:33 PM UTC
As migrant workers in dire need of buttering their bread
To Libya, the hardest way, some Ethiopians opted to head
They spent a portion of their life in a sweatshop
Clinging afloat a better-tomorrow hope.
Tragically, they were intercepted by ISIS members with
A brain, inured, petrified and dead
After blood-thirsty, heinous, ill-motivated and bad shaped.
ISIS demons, who lavish atavism, ironically the faithful behead
With faith-based hatred. Putting on a mask, they
Bullied 30 cross-necklace-bearing Ethiopians to a desert shore,
Showcasing the brutality they adore —the way a cat
Plays with an inescapably captured rat-
Rattling a sabre at the kneeling down victim's back
Making sure their brutality to others proves stark
Like a Hollywood movie they ordered 'attack! '
Oblivious
'Even slaying a sheep or a hen
Must be handled in a way that doesn't inflict a pain! '
The Prophet's word ISIS members misconstrued
"The Muslim Faith owes Ethiopian Orthodox a gratitude!
So Never attack a peaceful Ethiopian! "
What do they care, disciples of satan,
When an Ethiopian Muslim challenged them
"Where is your logic or reason? "
They shot him, taking his act as a treason.
It is martyr's soul that goes to heaven
While the unrepentant terrorists' souls
Are destined for hell's oven!
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 10:36 AM UTC
If you should die before we speak
And Death separates our selves
And Time goes on without you
Our grief as deep as wells
I'll regret to have neglected
To mention what you meant
But by Death you were intercepted
Before your life was spent
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC