Public Posts Stanwood, WA Stanwood, WA (zoom)

You need to be better,
It was recently said,
For patience is virtue
And will help your head
Become that much clearer
And then, perhaps instead,
Will lessen this feeling
Of absolute dread.

If I were an Angel,
I know what I'd do.
I would take away illness,
Providing a cure for you.
But I'm not an Angel,
So all I can say,
"I'll say a strong prayer,
Each night and each day
And ask, the Dear Lord,
To take the illness away."

It matters not, what I say or do,
It only matters that I love you.

The days of the past are now gone
and won't be back again.
Don't look back, when you hear the noise
of your history's past refrain.

It's 3:30 a. m. or I should be precise,
It is actually, 3:22, Isn't that nice?
The words in my head, rattling about,
Keep bouncing around, trying to get out.
Now, I sit at a table and chair,
Urging the words to appear from the air.
No matter how many or how few,
I've captured the moment, that I do
Write down words, no matter the dread
To hurriedly write and return to my bed.
Now the words are written to take,
Here I am now, very much awake.

The crispy air, nips at my nose
and as I walk, I feel my toes
starting to tingle, searching for heat,
I must put socks upon my feet.
Not liking to wear socks, not at all,
be it Spring, Winter, Summer or Fall.

Don't be afraid,
She said to me,
For life or death
Will always be
One that will
Soon, set us free.
The pain I feel
Deep within my soul,
Feels like I'm on the
Edge of the rabbit hole.
So here we go, Alice,
Without command.
Down the hole
To Wonderland.

The wind arose, I heard windows chatter.
Rain was coming sideways, to splatter,
Against the house and the window pane.
I just love the sound of rain.

All leaves, that were on the trees,
Have fallen now; are up to my knees.
If the rain will stop, just for awhile
I'll get to work, picking up the pile.

The fireplace is burning bright,
on this chilly, crispy night.
It's not a wood fire but gas,
removing dampness as hours pass.
I'm still cold, so I'd better
go and put on my sweater.

The last flowers that bloomed this Fall,
Have wilted and faded, to none at all.
The colors that were so intense,
Have darkened, so there is no pretense
Of life, as their hardened stems sing
"I'm gone and won't bloom, 'til Spring.

Here I sit, again,
before the morning light.
Writing out the words,
coming at darkest night.
I'm tired, with aching head,
telling me "Go back to bed."
For just a few minutes,
I must stay,
or my words
will quickly, go away.