Shirley I Am Part Two

releasing me - of minutes, hours, days - of being bored, as age creeps into my bed, and what is left, is in my head - providing nourishment for my soul – my spirit being fed by looking glass images, images that slip through the crack in my day dreams, my nightmares as my brain, I rack for images, memories, experiences - that lay dormant in a stack upon stacks - waiting to escape the boarded up shack that has been the villages claim to justify its existence. The grounds, the foundations, reasons to take a stance and say yes, yes there where days when I knew romance and as ever the fool, no one around to kick me in the pants as all has become history, – fourteen thousand pages – turn a leaf and you will find that this one’s life is far to empty, far to brief. In it – between the covers of seventy-eight – can there be any relief from all that has been laid before you ?, can there be belief ?, in what is before your eyes, as you look into what is laid before you, as I reach in, grab at, touch that slow closing door with hope that it will be possible to get a glimpse of more before my soul, my spirit, my essence takes wing, begins to soar beyond this plane, all the pain I have known before. In here – these lines – I feel the loss. Upon this stone – know – I see no moss, for on here, I offer no direction, just many hours of histories reflection. Empty- I feel in this alone place. Emptiness - I see in this aged drooping face. Where is ?, that I might seek to go ?, to gain wisdom, to learn what I do not know of a world of spirit, of soul, of a fine mind. It seems to me, little hope to find - among humanity – the true essence of woman kind as she entombs all- such waste – leaving all behind. Oh !, if only the fickle hand of fate could lay upon these drooping shoulders, in these arms, a mate that in ones darkest hours, a soft glowing light, shine upon this old soul and in the light of day be mine that would share on a world , not to compare with anything like my world of despair. The hour has passed, the rest are in decline. The minutes that remain – with stain, are mine. There is little I see, that will make life fine, for the ephemeral time left to me, little will shine through as I look into the black, storm cloud ahead that rage, stage battles, assassinate instead