Oh, the dark path that lights the weary way
Enveloping, watching me to my dismay
The quick mist grows thick, the heavenly scene dies
Torn apart to grasp my life or my lies.
Our eyes grow deep in developing sleep
The comfort of the watchful care we keep
What once was shown bright is as dark as night
We're left with our self and our red blood might
The fear we near to our descent-ful cause
It creates a break, our wondering pause
Alone, on our own we meet the demand
A grueling master that keeps his great hand
Who seeks our own thoughts, desires and dreams
Tragedy is funny when it's not what it seems.
About the Creator
Dan Fowlks
I love being creative and imaginative. I am a filmmaker, writer, father, husband and overall a complicated mess who only finds joy in being easy going.
www.danfowlks.com
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson3 days ago in Fiction
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