If I say to you,
I love you so,
will you answer
and tell me no?

Twice the light
of a secondary dream,
where life looks gaunt,
no substance seen.

When the World
is at your door,
knocking once
but no more,
you must select,
your own place,
if you belong to
the Human Race.

Did I miss my stop,
when the bus passed by?
If I did, I'm sorry to say,
I missed the love
you shared today.

I love this life, I lead,
said no one in memory care.
Life is not sublime. You have
minimal alone time and you
are sleep deprived.
Your friends and family tell you
to take a break and you find
it is difficult to do, because
of your own guilt of not being
there. To top it off, the facility
administrator, told me I needed
that to protect my own health.
Going to do it this Saturday.

Love is elusive,
running to hide.
Love should always
be by your side.

Drain the swamp.
Reclaim the land,
living your life,
stop being so bland.
There are many means,
in this World today,
so pay more attention
and do it your way.

Open the book of goodness,
of memories still retained.
You will find your blessing,
of life's enjoyment gained.

Draw upon the words you see,
reading them every day,
before the saddest of disease,
robs you, taking them away.

Once lived the troll, Orion,
from out the bridge he peeked,
a figure of forgiveness
to help those who seek.

"What hath thy wrought?"
I would hear Orion say.
"Have you brought the goodness,
we need most, every day?"

There was no reply or movement,
someone would always say.
Now there was indifference
and we will go away.

When the twisted tails of Dragons,
stretched across the jaded skies,
as if comprised of insects
disguised as Fireflies.

Hot bursts of flames
from out the Dragon's mouth,
as it moved from East to West,
fading in the darkening South.

No stars nor moon were sparkling
or shedding any light,
as a night once eerily quiet
was painted red and white.

No more the Sun's reflection,
no more the proud display,
for now, the Golden Dragons
are gone. Now gone away.

I'm going to try
changing my ways.
Life is too short,
not enough days.

Another evening
with words fraught,
"Do you love me?
or do you not?

How delicate must
her life now be,
when she says,
"You don't like me."

For life's assurances,
it is her crying word.
I say, "I love you,"
she knows I've heard.