All of my childhood heroes are dead,
the famous ones,
the uncelebrated ones,
they're all gone now.
All but one;
my mother.
She is still alive.
She is old.
She is tired.
She is feeble and weak
but she is still funny
and kind
and she struggles to discern
between reality and illusion.
Is it the medication
or is it the disease ?
It matters not.
She drifts between worlds
and lives in both.
Oh, my father is still alive too.
start from the edges
one piece at a time
no longer concerned with the big picture
but focusing on the piece at hand
it helps stops the shaking
and seems to aid in keeping the hallucinations away
at least for a while
but three-hundred pieces
is a lot to take in all at once
and she's been gone from her room
for thirty minutes or more
the puzzle can wait
it will still be there tomorrow
so, she heads down the hallway,
back to her room
where there are hungry children
that need her attention because only she can see them
and only she can hear them crying
they were old timers
they were gold miners
following another get rich scheme
packing up and heading west
doing what they thought was best
hoping to fulfill their wealthy dream
gold fever deep within the vein
sadly turning out the same
out of money they gave up their plan
going bust, they just stopped tryin'
left behind their rusty iron
leaving ugly scars upon the land
they were web designers
modern day forty-niners
mining from the corner office suite
checking fluctuating prices
trading crypto from devices
from towers made of steel and concrete
unlike the folks in forty-nine
they take risks of a different kind
livin' large in the land of milk and honey
but as the clients lose their trust
the modern prospectors go bust
but they're losing other peoples' money
making promises
she can’t keep
she
still hears voices in her head
echoing
all the things she said
she’s
given up on counting sheep
tells
herself lies to help her sleep
with all
those self-help books she’s read
making promises
she can’t keep
she
still hears voices in her head
depressing
thoughts are running deep
she
makes a different choice instead
some
medication by the bed
as
softly she begins to weep
making promises
she can’t keep
we speak
of life, of love, of lust
we talk
of loyalty and trust
of all
the things that we discussed
we still
end up carbon and dust
although
we change, adapt, adjust
we shine
the chrome, we scrape the rust
it’s so
unfair, it’s so unjust
we still
end up carbon and dust
we
strive to do what’s right and just
we aim
to do those things we must
and
through life’s changes readjust
and
still end up carbon and dust
we feel
the wind, withstand the gust
we use its
strength to give us thrust
to live
a life that’s more robust
but
still end up carbon and dust
more routine
traffic stops
by aggressive,
local cops
wrong
time, wrong place
wrong
color, wrong race
“Get out of the car”
“Stay right where you are”
“Get down, Turn around”
“Place
your hands upon the ground”
“Keep your hands on the wheel”
“Put
your hands on your head”
and she
reached for her tazor
but
grabbed her gun instead
“Tazor,
tazor, tazor”
she
yelled before she shot
a muzzle
flash, a bullet passed
right
through the victims heart
gusts of
wind begin to blow
eerily
the trees are creaking
swirling,
twirling powdered snow
I can
hear the branches squeaking
trying
to keep the heat from leaking
I place
a blanket by the door
on the
window frost is sneaking
we
listen to the furnace roar
