Time’s now free ahead but paths now less long.
Choices now still many but chances fewer to be wrong.
Though wrong turns will inevitably crash,
the time is now for another splash.
Playing it safe will always be good.
And being reckless we never should.
Should I sit quietly and wither happily away?
Or awake with zeal to conquer the day?
Questions are hard and answers are cheap.
Actions we’ve made are what we’ll keep.
But time will come when time won’t matter.
We’ll lay alone, our bodies in tatter.
Our minds will wander to what was known.
Our eyes will close to see we’re grown.
Points beyond are for us to decide.
The end’s the same, but for the ride.
I sit at the kitchen table waiting for thoughts to come.
So far none’s forthcoming; I’m hoping there’ll be some.
Time is quickly passing as I stare off into space.
If wasting time were a sport I know I’d win the race.
But words don’t run on tracks and thoughts know no time.
But if patience is a virtue then waiting is no crime.
Procrastination is a different thing, results will find away.
It’s a choice that we make to give away our say.
Yesterdays’ may be gone but our actions will remain.
Mistakes made along the way will leave a lasting stain.
We wake each day to change, thinking everything’s the same.
But time moves only forward and tomorrows’ we cannot tame.
We’ll take our deepest breath and dive in head first.
We try to make the biggest splash to satisfy our thirst.
The volumes fill up fast, their content is our own.
The good we see in others reflects on how we’ve grown.
The time is getting late and I’m fading fast.
Why must the future wait while sleeping off the past?
So I’ll wait another day for something new to write.
The winter blues are passing and mornings looking bright.
Optimism’s on the rise though heights often chill.
Pessimism is an easy fall but the bottom is no thrill.
Windows will soon be open and fresh starts will appear.
And those webs in the attic just need the spring to clear.
When time and luck do collide,
our good fortunes cannot hide.
Eyes will open for a special day.
Doors will open and we’re on our way
We never know what lies ahead,
footsteps lead to where we’re led.
Eyes will open to a special sense.
The past is now our best defense.
Prepared are we to stand alone,
arms outreached, our distance flown.
Eyes open for a special one.
Hearts open and the future begun.
Bound as one we’ll double our best,
joy and bliss will know no rest.
Eyes will open to our special place.
Wound are we with a special face.
Hands of time will gently sweep.
Ups and downs we’ll deftly leap.
Eyes open for another special day.
Doors locked and in love we’ll stay.
One more month and spring is here.
When freezing to death’s no longer a fear.
We’ll pack our sweaters, hats and coats.
Soon the bay will fill with boats.
Flowers will bloom and temps will rise.
Trees will green before longing eyes.
Days get longer, nights a bit cool.
But now we wait, because time’s cruel.
I don’t hate winter or the cold.
But those months are growing old.
I do like autumn but spring is still best.
So for one more month I’ll just rest.
I pulled a trigger and I’m not proud.
There was no blood but it sure was loud.
I said some things I shouldn’t have said.
Words shot out and stuck in their head.
My friends’ brain exploded, oh what a mess.
It was a poor choice of words I do confess.
I brought up a secret from long, long ago.
I thought it resolved but I guess not so.
Should I be silent or edit my speech?
What is OK and what’s out of reach.
I’m sure they’ll call when the wound heals.
I’ve been there before, I know how it feels.
Years have gone by with never a slip,
while I watched them drown, sip by sip.
Was it so bad to call them a drunk?
Am I a bad guy, an ass or a punk?
I know it’s a sickness and not their fault.
But why’s intervention seen as an assault?
When they’re sober maybe then they’ll see,
they pulled that trigger long before me.
My mind’s blank but I can’t complain,
it’s certainly better than being insane.
But if I was, how would I know?
Would I feel high or way down low?
Would I be happy or angry or sad?
Would I be good or be really bad?
Could I still write? Could it be read?
Would I know if I were alive or dead?
Would I be recognized by friends I meet?
Would I wander aimlessly up and down the street?
Would there be a reason for the questions I ask?
Could I complete a minimal task?
Would I care or would I hide in shame?
Or would my life be pretty much the same?
I don’t have the answers, at least not today.
But if I’m asking, I’m probably OK.
On the lookout for my last place to dwell,
some were OK, some looked like hell.
Seen a grand old home in a bad part town,
but it was too high and they wouldn’t come down.
We saw one so scary, ghosts wouldn’t live there.
I’m picky I know but I think that I’m fair.
My home now is charming; I’ve been here for years.
Saying goodbye I’ll probably shed tears.
I’m close to a harbor and a quaint Main street.
My neighbors are close but mostly discrete.
I have no garage and I’d like some land.
I’d prefer something wooded to the beach sand.
Though a lakeside retreat would surely be fun,
I’d soon be drowned paying for one.
I’d like something older and properly restored.
I don’t need a hobby cos I’m never bored.
I don’t need a compound or a pasture for beasts.
But a barn would be nice to house family feast.
So the search goes on, but I’ve no worries or fright.
It’s like finding true love; you know when it’s right.