So many miles away now yet still I contemplate the loss.
Sometimes living in regret is useful and softens future assessments.
I try to hear the voices in-between.
Bright eyes they do not decide my flight my intended journey.
I comb the colors of your claims decipher their uses press on regardless.
I pruned the roses because I heard them breathing.
I set their alarm golden rules developed over time.
I looked out the window noticed all the consequences they lined the driveway.
I tried to focus on their dance rather than their intension.
They lean sometimes too far pull me apart in crowded rooms of malcontents.
No matter how many layers of well being they often lie.
I always hear them whisper after laughing.
Such nerve.
I pack up my paints join the brigade that only I can see now.
I chase after moons that rest.
You coming out somewhere leaning somewhere somewhere from the grave.
I hear you...
try to hear me as well Yes, I try.
And yet...
I grieve all the day because your presence chose to meet me.
Quiet roar.
I neglected to pave the way.
Who knew I would ever regret bow my head about the struggles outcome? I pass the day doing best I can.
I try to give honor to stolen baby roses.
I should grow them here now.
Find their little souls.
I would have gathered them long ago saved their voices for my pleasure.
Too late? So many miles away now.
I stood on the beach and thought I heard you breathing.
3 February 2007 Kathy Ostman-Magnusen