PoetryParadise

december drips droplets dribble death's ember sips pale as drizzle the mist hangs low the world's so weary the tears just flow no seeing clearly on bee lost in time on leaf and clover on petal so sublime how grief takes over

I am a poor, lost wayward son, born down in old Nebo. My lover said she'd stay always, but I left her with the snow. Church bells, oh, how they knell. Lord, please save my soul. For I'm a wretched vagabond, with no place left to go. And I shall walk this lonely path, of shame and misery. For I have been consumed by wrath, and I cannot be free. Church bells, oh, how they knell. But, I wander to and fro. For I'm a broken vagabond, with darkness in my soul.

With no shoes upon his feet. Garbage being his daily food to eat. It's hard to find a sole purpose. During Christmas time he loved to window shop. Its cool to look at families near the furnace. Eating and playing Christmas games. The holiday spirit warmed his heart. After his night-out he returned home to his spot near the train. Grateful to see he still has his rampart. As he chills back with no heat. Being happy for what he was able to see today. Letting days pass as he continues to travel. Hoping that one day he can celebrate Christmas again before his is cancelled.

I'm thankful for long nights and late mornings. Those rainy Monday "sick days," where we lie in bed all morning and talk in the sign language of our lips and tongues. Banana pancakes, couch cuddling movie days in last night's pajamas and this morning's messy hair. I want to grow old with you and spend every Monday with the flu.