Quilted

Patches of good times,

pieces of bad,

quilted and stitched

in the life that we had.

Remnants of memories

sepia tones,

yellowing love ages

into our bones.

Did I do this thing

or did you say that?

And does it matter now

love has gone flat?

You sit in your chair,

and I’ll sit in mine,

alone and together,

and lost in the wine.

Arguments, fighting

familiar as dust.

Then after midnight

it’s make love or bust.

Time to be quiet,

even our sighs.

As silence settles

we watch the moon rise.

Tomorrow then, we will

remember this day,

more fragments of memories

to put away.

As life gets more peaceful

the older you grow.

the sun lights your quilt up

with just the right glow.

 

Write ‘Til The End

Dust now settles on your soul.

Body crumbles, health not whole.

Vision fades, waking slows.

Page stays blank, writing woes.

Have you no more words to say?

Have they left and flown away?

Or are you a lazy sot?
Leave them buried, let them rot.

Words were lovers you embraced,

now it seems they’ve been replaced.

What intangibles are there

that make you no longer care?

Light the fire, feed the spark.

Don’t leave words there in the dark.

Deep within they stir the heart.

Far from you they’ll never part.

In the mud of mind and soul,

use the words to make you whole.

In the war of flesh and heart,

words of wisdom make the art.

In the dance of life and death,

write them with your final breath.

 

Dreamscapes

The sun sets,

life leaks away

and the reaper’s

silver scythe is

heralded in silver hair.

 

Time watches

from a distance,

its steady gaze

holding your eyes

as it keeps pace

beside you.

The dreams you pursue

grow translucent

in your hands,

and there are days you can’t be sure

if it’s them, or you,

slipping through your fingers.

It may yet be that

you are one and the same,

but one has to stay,

and it can’t be

you.