Probabilities create possibility,
Probably infinite possibilities,
A probable cause making things possible,
Plausible thoughts are unstoppable,
Operable through this modular,
Atoms are making molecules,
Always following certain rules,
Constantly building new tools,
To use in the space you see,
Eternally expanding,
Demanding us to explore,
A story like never before,
Remember what you came for,
Restore balance to the core,
Before you explode,
Unload your stored emotions,
There's so much more to do,
I'm tired of bills being due,
Like a rat chewing walls,
Running when the money calls,
I feel so damn small,
Falling flat on my face,
Crawling in place,
No urge to embrace grace,
Erasing my possibilities,
I'm counting on probabilities,
I've lived several of these,
And in One I heal this dis-ease
This happened to me twenty-two years ago. I thank God I am still alive.
I feel the ripple in my life's cycle,
impending risk that could rape my soul.
I look in the mirror, but no tears flow.
A virus cramps my shallow feelings,
an ominous glare that obscures.
The pungent smell of disinfectant
the impersonal looks of nursing aides,
the indifference of certain medics,
the fearful looks of other patients,
the smell of living death.
The surgeon comes,
examines,
prods,
feels
listens.
Like an auctioneer's hammer,
going, going, gone.
The verdict is announced,
a triple by-pass,
serious but operable.
"Don't worry, man!"
I look up at the wall
that surrounds my cell,
and see Him hung
on old worn wood.
Is it so difficult, Lord, to die?
Am I on my own in here?
Will I survive?
A tear trickles slowly down my cheek,
but now my inner self is lit.
I wake up from my stupor.
Life is a pattern,
mapped 'til our death,
but no man walks alone.
I smile,
I receive faith.
A glow illuminates my soul.
Tomorrow I may be dead,
but I am sure, Sweet Jesus,
I will survive, for meekly
I accept Your will.
A shooting star is a blue orchid. At a Christmas party. But never in a fur coat. That would not be operable would it. Nevertheless a swinging peacock could disco dance in radiating beams from a single lamp. Heaping custard onto a crocus in a garden tent. How wise. How adoring. Scorn not a soldier in a basin. And wear ten ties. As it is often officially unsure what style of cloud will be passing. Gypsy skirted tigers sing beautifully and are always well presented. Operatic nerves of a small chimp waving. How quite quaint. Whilst the whipping of the breeze can smile in a teapot frame. Great. Clap then. Monstrous moons make minutes meekly. *** beak not a whale. *** operationally *** ha ha ha xx is a duck a dog? *** hexagonal mineral deposits xxxx aquarium ***
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