Lack of....

Tossing and turning..night dreams nipping at my heels heeding rest like a rock slide racing down a mountainside...My Monday fun-day is going to be hell in the hay stack....can I make it? The little engine that could can't ...maybe.

My Delicate

Sensitivity like a single celled organism bouncing  between two walls colliding like rain against death only mocking the morning due in a springtime meadow...screaming louder than  crickets... faster than salmon on their way up a forever hill leading to a vast nothingness touched by a cloud of color that bleeds only red....a crimson and clover, send him on over, because he knoweth all but the bird's call and the bear's brawl..with sharp teeth like swords that cut into fangs of fondness...I cry oh I cry, why must the apple of my eye cut like a knife and take away the life of such an empathetic egg shell, cracked into a zillion pieces of gold reduced to only glitter and the freezing cold....faster and faster I run into the verdant vegetation, the edge of salvation, a decaying nation of voices and pain..but all will be better when comes does the rain.