When the blue green summers
of youth give way
to the golden falls of the aged and grey
its understood that death will call

but no one cares
no one at all

When sacred lives have slipped away
in morning's paper deaths displayed
as obits breathing final breaths
of those who left this world in death

Their storied bones are buried behind
the other news and hard to find
a legacy of 50 words
or less if less in life occurred

Like the simple things they did unheard

The times they stopped to lend a hand
The little things in life they planned
The times for Christ they took a stand
The only footprints in the sand

and no one noticed

no one at all

except God

A footstep stood
is better than a step back.
We may leave a deeper print,
but it shows others
                    that's its not easily filled.

And that those that try to fill it,
              have lot more to prove


than the reason of its depth..

I am no longer a child
Not the innocent, little girl I used to be
She is now but a memory
Replaced by a new face
It is unfamiliar and out of place
It's eyes so distant, they are alien
Coloured in with grey pencil
A complete contrast
To the rainbows that once filled them
They are gone now.

I miss her:the little girl
She was bright and she was bold
And I miss her
She used to wear sunshine coloured hoodies
With a smile that matched
Her happiness burned like a bonfire
Lighting up all around
She danced with no music
Sang with no song
Laughed with no reason

Her imagination ran riots
Stories flooded out of her
Tales of all kinds
Bejewelled with wild ideas
She dreamed up a new universe everyday
Explored her mind as though it was a jungle
She swung around on emerald vines
Excitedly breathing in
Every scent, every colour, every shape
Getting drunk on endless possibilities

The girl that fills the mirror smiles sadly
Her dull eyes overflowing with invisible tears
I do not know how to comfort her
She is stranger looking out at me
I choose to be blind to her mind
A war of conflict rages on in me
I am angry, red hot
Knowing she took away the sunshine
Though I feel pity, too, for the blue salt trails
That form crystals on her fading cheeks
Pity for colour she is rendered.

Though the sentence may end,
                       the ink carries on.
The cartridge seems vacant of
                                    wanton metaphors.

Exhibiting reflections on  soiled paper cups,
                wanting to be filled
with drinkable dictations of
                              what is spelt out in stains.

But I spilt that void long ago,
                          blemishing my shirt
with what meant to be drank upon.
        A decolouration of meaning read differently.