The loss crawls over me

like the hand of the reaper,,

he comes for me. Slips into

my dreams, night terror,

monster under my bed

Mike Wazowski

took the night off.

The next day’s morning

glare wards off the sickly beast.

Left under the horizon

they’ll stay, forgotten

in the success of the

next.

Wine and dined

on the surface

it’s ready,

Hold with care

we’ve done this before

lean and be steady.

She sang this rhyme

and I remember it today,

for it’s the anniversary

of the day she went gray.

Now we gander on the 

meaning of this madness,

Alone and cold but loved

we too can be full of gladness.

Signs of the one

walking down 3rd Street

flowing pink sun dress

curly locks flowing down

her slim back.

Remnants visible in the rear

view mirror.

Signs of the one

walking down 4th Street. 

That smile lights up my world

fourth of July in May,

may I please remember

this night

under these lights

under these stars

you shine the brightest.

Rolling in the deep

bottom of the pit it rumbles

to the rim. Filling to the top,

fleeing from the heat. Steam

erupts from the mouth,

flying away into the crystal

light orbing around. Erosion

criples the tongue, whispering

to the belly of the beast.

markets sell to few. You

can’t get a refund on

time. Lie for an hour

and watch the clock

strike nine. Time’s 

the only way to

count the time

you spent

making

time

count.

Holding onto your wisp,

the feint stench of what you use

to be. Before your grasp

was comparable to an Iron Fist,

Ruler of a meek dungeon,

the warden called you Danny,

now you walk idle halls.

Saddle up

and ride through

past the sun.

Your adventure is over

and tavern wenches pass

your tales like herpes.

Hat filled to the brim

of ego and spills

through the fresh bullet hole.

Sleep great adventurer. Your next

adventure has already begun.

I see you;

standing

on your mountain top

peering down at us

like a god to a man.

Who crowned you king?

When did your entitlement

place you at the top,

to call down below saying

we deserved our past.

It easy from way up there

isn’t it. Will be

waiting when a sudden gust

out of your control

pushes you. The fall 

down won’t be pretty.

Oh we had some good times.

Running threw untrimmed meadows

laughing, laughing until our cheeks

turned red as lips.

Than, oh than the he blew through

the ceiling like a cyclone.

I found the shelf under my ass,

watching the light come through as

fragments dreaming of the real thing.

Dust mites came,

swarmed the finished wood,

to keep me warm through the winter.