Soon and very soon
I will see the king
I hope he will
Take away my morning blues
Yes I am still tired
I wished I could go back
To bed
But I can't
If I do that my king
I won't sleep at night
So I must stay awake
Yes my king
Every night I go to bed early
I never stay up past my
Bed time
Because if I did that
I would only get a few hours of sleep
And I would not be ale to function
I would have bags under my eyes

The night has fallen around us
The wind it savagely blows:
A wicked mood is cast upon me,
One from which I cannot go.

Against the night, orbs on lamp posts loom,
Flickering forth a sickly yellow light:
A storm from deep within advances,
Still no hope for me to go.

Heavy leaded clouds drape the sky,
The paving just as dark below:
Such sight it fails to move me:
I cannot, will not go.

`

Grey clouds gather in white lines
Soft and low they drift
Grow darker with the sunrise
A weight a restless mind can't lift

They blur the edges of bad days
darken the ones ahead
Turn the brightest light to muted shades
Constant battles in your head

Beneath Their fast and heavy sweep
The world feels brighter drawn within
Each sound electric, colours beam
As if the air forgets it's skin

Latin phrase meaning
"Time flies, remember death"
any given moment could spell finis
meaning the end, conclusion,
or finish of something
most grievous when linkedin
to the remaining life unlived
victoriously snatched unexpectedly
particularly tragic when
loved one mourned just a babe or youth
versus loved one up in years
nevertheless permanent absence
whether death choice one makes
linkedin to mental health mailer daemons
as nearly happened with me
when jousting as a whipper-snapper

Looking for clues tonight, I read poetry,
trying to connect with the calmness therein.

The dogs are trying to sort things out for the night in our bed.
It takes them a while, with many nonsensical revolutions.

I ask about the book she's reading, and if it's any good.
She says it seems to have an unreliable narrator - always tricky.

My mother's painting of joy hangs on our wall.
A bouquet of bursting color I gave her years ago.

Dawn lifts the stars from your gaze
and pours them into the pitcher of daybreak.
My rapture, in the pearl of sight,
kindles remembered fire,

while heaven down your eyelashes
descends into my living shadow
and scattered paths.

Angels call you by name,
the vault of heaven rings in the dream of grass.
Intoxicating tenderness touches the morning,
hiding the real within a weave of silence.

A poet’s flame permeates the senses
so that into eternity your beauty may fall,
like the sun that bathes the whole earth.

The Unanswered Phone Call

The phone's dial tone feels cold.
The ringing on the other end...Deafening,
in its repetition.
The throat catches.
No one answers,
Just the machine,
Leave a message.

An hour ticks by.
No response.
The mind takes over,
Maybe they're busy, hurt, asleep, or dead.
Maybe they're angry, don't love me, want this to end,
or
Maybe I'll be old, before they talk to me, again...

Untie the muzzle from one's mouth,
Call out the morals going south.
Oh to open up one's eyes,
And to hear the anguished cries.
Make no excuses, lost by no disguise.

Cease the rhythm of hate filled tune,
In kindness glare, as if the moon.
Nowhere to hide, nowhere to run,
Illuminated by brightest sun.
To kill the joy of evil's fun.