LastingYour heavy eyes are bloodshot; I see sadness and fatigue. I know it is not your fault it is the price of time. Around your eyes are lines reaching deep, holding you like cracks on an old painted wall. And when you smile it makes me smile, but that smile is bitter sweet, for I see the lines and I must look away.My eyes drift to your chin and I see a fresh patch of snow lying upon your forest of brown. I do not recall seeing them before and I wonder when they came to be. Your hand reaches out to me, beckoning me close; but I can only stare. It is the same, soft and warm. Time has not reached your hands yet. There are no traces of years gone by, but it is expected.How often we prayed for our hardships to depart, but we did not think of the valuable price of times pass. These lines will not stop spreading until the beat of your heart ceases, but today I will take comfort in your hands. Tomorrow you may look at me and see patches of snow blanketing my hair, perhaps you will see
Be Still HeartBe still heart,Still like the frightened, still like the night.But like the night something unseen, unheard is lurking.I beg you heart be still.Call on the memories as sweet as honey.Remember when the sun had risen;How its glow held you captive in its warm embrace.Embrace the glow within you now.Though it fades like everything else,Passing by, leaving us with a mere memory of a brighter time,These memories will keep you alive;Waken you from the dream that is the reality.
The UnforgivenHe sat still and quiet as a setting sun casted its final shadows on the walls of the room. A face stern and well worn gave way to unmoving eyes. He stared off into the unknown with a slight gap between his dry bitten lips.Like the ticking arm on a clock his mind swarmed over possibilities and unanswered questions. With a flicker of his eyes he placed his feet on the bed. Holding himself he fell backward. The darkness immersed him; he turned his head toward the curtains. Between them he saw the fullness of the moon. It showered his face in a pure white light. The same familiar moon he had been looking at since he was a little boy.However it was not the familiarity of the white moon that pierced through the black clouds circling his mind, but the thought of her. It was she with all her grace and beauty, her trust in him. She saw him for more than the man he was and he through all of his shortcomings believed her. She was his life and now she is gone.He had watched the twinkling light
ArtTheir words are in every stroke.A silent speech their own;Often dismissed and overlooked.Don't translate. Don't speak. Just feel.Absorb each detail and pause.It is their words in every strokeThat weaves through the heartAnd tugs on its strings,Making Music.A silent speech their own;Asking, Pleading to you to listen.