I fear that I border on becoming overly contemplative and analytical these days. I feel much, and examine all- while making attempts toward developing an impervious nature. The burden of a heavy heart is that nothing is untouched by its stain. All appears slightly darker in hue, more sallow in tint, and altogether foreign. I am always well, but beneath it all, I am unwell
Valley, Oh valley grey
I have laid back in my coffin of my own volition and have decided to make attempts to gaze at the stars.
The night seldom lingers long enough. The cadence of the rustling sycamore seldom rustles loud enough. The tick of the clock neither slow nor fast enough.
With the dawn shall come the resurrection, with the light shall come the day.
"In order to be created, a work of art must first make use of the dark forces of the soul." Albert Camus
The pressure builds,each word loaded, leaded; ammunition, weapon - ready for the draw.
Despair and loss-oh-the fingers do linger..over trigger the fingers shall certainly crawl
Each hope, each wish, each prayer more desperate - The constant longing may fool the mind
Yet heart, the wiser, knows truth un-yielding. Future possibilities may be more kind.
Await, await, away shall the pain go - until the heart can feel a new
Awaiting I shall be, for loves gentle embrace, sitting in my very own church pew.