Of moonlight and a rose
when you can suppose
about the life that you've led
without any dread.
No wonder, they'll say,
when you've gone away,
about the way you ran
and the type of a man
that cared for others,
both Sisters and brothers.
Retired for many years and now re-discovering some writings, from long ago, along with new endeavor to help save my soul.
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Of moonlight and a rose
Words can be the most beautiful thing.
Their use, can make a heart sing,
But they can also cause, much pain
And a hurt, that will always remain.
Using words, should be about truth,
Not full of disdain, lying or uncouth.
Words, used in a sonnet, professing love
Is usually the best way, far and above,
Those utterances of hate and disdain,
When one hears a lie after lie refrain.
The changing of seasons, across Worlds wide
Describing the colors of Sunsets to remember,
Or the harshness of the month, December.
Only words can describe how we feel
Or what in life, is falsely surreal.
Words describe the beauty, that we see
And the feelings of love, that I have for thee.
A young frog sat on his pad,
Not an Apple but a lily, he had.
While on the pad, he did perch
Quietly, like he was in church.
In church, for a frog, I'd soon see
Was done for protection, not reverie.
For frogs of his size, could soon
Be eaten by a bird. No not a Loon.
The dangers for him, would go on.
His fear was the mighty Blue Heron.
A long shadow, cut through his light;
He jumped into the water, out of sight,
Holding his breath, he managed to stay
And escaped the Heron, at least for today.
My alone time is no longer mine.
The attention to another, though sublime
Has taken away my alone time.
That appears selfish, I do admit,
But not having privacy, not one bit,
Is more harmful to me and my wit.
Where thou are, today
Once was I.
A younger version,
Waiting, then to try,
To be all that
I was meant to be
Not become a hateful
Cynic, like we see
Everyday on TV.
The days grow long, as do I.
The dreams of yesterday, have gone by.
No longer the dreams to be.
Now gone, once more, for eternity.
My eyes are closed.
The void is black.
My arms are numb.
I've lost track,
Of the place I'm in.
I cannot say why,
But I suspect that
I'm about to die.
I hope I'm wrong,
But won't say goodbye,
For now I know,
As I let out a sigh.
For all that I know,
Which isn't much,
Tomorrow, the Sun will glow
And as such,
The weather, soon will go
To provide rain to touch.
I read an article that said to set aside a time for the words in our head.
That will allow one to create, the long string of words and then you
could relate, those words down to paper or put on a tape.
The danger, she said, was without a special time you would lose
that ability to write the words that bring tranquility.
Is she right? I don't know. Time will tell, is what I say,
so we or I will start counting today.
I appreciate all of the likes or comments as it prompts me to write.