I try to write, what's going on,
In this feeble mind of mine.
Some thoughts just pop, then are gone.
Others just appear, without reason or rhyme.
Don't ask me where they come from,
I can't answer, as I don't know.
I just have them in my mind,
And will put to paper, for show.

The evening tide, is not for me,
For it holds life's uncertainty.
I would rather run and fail
As I escape this earthly jail.

Oh dearest Mary
where are you now,
when I need you most?
Is your spirit here
or is it your ghost?

What can I say,
What can I do,
To return you
Back to you?