The day stretched out into the afternoon and somber-ed down to a windy evening. The air is talking to everyone even though I am the only one listening.
The dying of an old age hangs above my pillow, bed The yellow curtains of youth Fold up like wrinkled, truth. Skin on skin, rash Burning aching, feeling This yonder, future
I recount the words and phrases and try to remember the moments that meant so much and the gravity to which they were nothing in your eyes. I almost cry at what I find.
They say we choose our joys and our sorrows And yet I have come to dread the morrow That from my choosing has come to follow. The winter cold lingers in an art and fashion