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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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Heading South.
Going bad.
Your the best
Thing I've had.

It's not too late,
I'll tell you so,
But it is hate,
Stealing the show.

Not hate for you
For this I know.
It is for fate,
Which takes your Soul.

There is no cure
For this terrible plight,
But it helps not
Through the dark night.

What can I do
To keep you now?
Bringing back the joy
For loving you.

I walk at night.
I walk alone,
On my way,
without my phone.
There is no distraction.
No music to hear,
As I face my worries,
While acknowledging my fear.

A fear of failure now,
As your slow decline
Of memory loss,
Increases the damage.
Increases the cost
Of caring for you.
In a manner of good
For you my sweet one,
It must be understood,
For you can't help yourself,
On this Summer Day.
When you talk to me,
Upon rising and you say,
"What do I do next?"

So there I was,
talking out loud,
it was because,
I was in a crowd.
A crowd? Wait one,
I must admit,
the quiet has been nice,
but not at the
cost of the life
of others, of who I read.
No longer with us,
so many are dead.
Say what you will.
Do what is right.
How in the World,
do you sleep at night?

"Just start writing,"
He said to me.
"Let your thoughts go
and you will see,
the words coming forth,
like weeds from the ground
and jump to the paper,
for now they are found
to be unrestrained,
nothing in the way."
Writing, keep writing
until your hands cramp
and your brow becomes
annoyingly wet, as
I try to pull words
from my head or mouth,
to keep the flow coming,
by not going "South"
away from it all, if you please.
Get thee down on your knees,
pray to the Lord, not in vain,
calling forth all by their name.

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