I woke up early and wasted time,
scribbled some words but none that rhyme.
There’s stories told again and again.
And I’ll have another but I know not when.
My body rose from a cozy bed.
Thoughts poured from my sleepy head.
But with no order there’s no start.
And with no meaning there is no art.
While mindless dribble flows with ease,
like foggy memories of the open seas.
Or of early years spent flat broke,
when thinking time was just a joke.
But love was found and a child born.
A father lost and mothers mourn.
Successes found and maturity spurred.
Sickness consumed then depression prospered.
The future then seen through the eyes of one.
Oblivion felt and life seemed done.
Years pass by but seconds count.
And to rise again, love’s paramount.