Sweet Blessed Poetry

Sweet Blessed Poetry 55. There is a ripeness to our labor As tumbled words are laid to bare. We strain against the sands of time To preen the thoughts found there. If our beatific Muse be predisposed To divulge that which ought to be. We get to peek behind the curtain... Oh sweet blessed poetry. The End Love's Address 56. I've put my house in order. I've made peace with those above. I've set aside my peculiarities. I'm ready now for love. But my efforts are contentious And this haunts my every prayer As love holds no current address For which I am aware. The End Loss 57. How does someone over-come The loss of a child? An affliction Of such magnitude... all others Pale in comparison. A huge chasm Opening the soul to such misery And sorrow... both fair and foul Succumb to tears. The comfort Of others becomes trivial and Unimportant. Love evaporates. The putrid air reeks of discontent. You cannot breath. You are alone. You are as close to Death as a Living person can be. You are The walking dead. You cannot Imagine how life can be so obtuse. Someone tells you, 'They're in a Better place.' Your fists clench In Rage. They wisely walk away. You Cannot eat. You cannot sleep. Your Mind races to make sense of it all. You drift back down the stairs. There are brownies... your child's Favorite, cruelly baked by a well- Meaning neighbor. There is a note... 'Tomorrow will be better.' There is no Tomorrow. There is only an endless Parade of what you feel today. The End