It's 80 here today. I went out intending to sketch, but wrote instead.
"React well" society says.
The shadows and fog do not care about what is prim and proper.
The lurking envy and mocking pain strike at random.
There is no magic formula for easing the grief.
It will only ever cease when I take my post beside her in the ground.
Before, life had it's questions. The hypothetical ones about
politics...religion...pepsi or coke
The bumps and hills were manageable after
a pat on the back and a good night's sleep
Skies were blue, with a warm sun
Grass was soft and cool and there were trees with fingers of shade
In the night death reached its tentacles to the safest of all places
and stole my joy, my beauty, my daughter
The nights echo with memories never had
and laughter forever lost
Whispers now escape from the mist
from the ever-long reaches of the stars to me
I long to return to naivety
to relive the moments of ambiguity that was my life before
Now the weight produces a hypothetical middle finger
to questions long ago