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He fumbles
and
mumbles,
when left alone.

He won't
be
with us,
not very long.

The end of days,
comes slowly now,
as an elderly couple,
renew their vows.

Both in wheelchairs,
moving around,
quietly, using their
feet, without sound.

A touch of fingers,
running through her hair.
She knows it's him,
still not aware.

They live apart.
She's in memory care.
He's in Independent,
up the stair.

Far and away,
in the land of dreams,
special moments spring
forth, without warning.
It's what life will bring.

Long were the memories,
laid here to rest.
The minds of our loved ones,
when the telling was best.

Will they remember,
will they even care,
about love and devotion,
thoughts we can share.

Does air and clouds shatter,
into pieces, onto the ground,
when aircraft break
the speed of sound?

Hang a tooth,
from a Dragon, slain,
around thy neck,
easing the pain.

Fail not, in
your quest to be,
when travelling,
over land and sea.

Remember to erase,
life's sad sorrow,
bringing forth memories,
for a new tomorrow.

Cloaked in a wavering,
veil of indifference.
Emotional bursts
of sadness.
What will life be,
when the love,
I've known, goes away?

"Recent studies show that too much HDL increases the risk of death. HDL levels above 80 mg/dL have also been associated with higher risk of cardiovascular events and compromised bone density". More at Scientific American ➜

If love was a number,
would it be odd or even?
If you must choose,
Seven or eleven.

A ditty from the,
"Two, four, six, eight"
chanting about
"Who do we appreciate?"

We all have a number,
which we will choose.
Not ones or "Snake eyes"
stay with threes or twos.

The lines, in this babble
of words which I write,
are becoming idiotic,
this sleepiest night.

So off to bed, I will go
my words will be few.
Goodnight to you,
Farewell and adieu.

Into the darkness,
go quickly and fast,
or you may stumble,
finding your path.

Why is there fear,
of the dark, unknown?
It's like a Spy novel,
when your cover is blown.

In the still of the night,
when I should be asleep,
thoughts run through my head.
Many are shallow, some are deep.

Words, some familiar, some not,
rattling around, in this old mind.
Most are complimentary.
Seldom are they unkind.

Jorge Luis Borges (1899 – 1986) Argentine short-story writer, essayist and poet. He was a key figure in Spanish language and universal literature.