Love brings expiration
Like most drugs there is a small
sequence of numbers only
to be seen
in a broken rear view mirror
Be it written on the back of a lovers
shoe, vivid as they walk away
Somewhere in the maze
of a Doctor’s file
Or in the fog of pet’s dream
When time holds its hand over the mouth of a life, what do you do
Dust off memories
Find old pictures
Focus on moments – Gone
Seize every moment
Live while you can
Do it quickly…
Time will strike again.
My Grandma used to say something along the lines of “It happens in Three’s” – she believed it.
It is a phrase repeated by some when loss strikes… Why do we say things like this, is it a superstition carried-over from some ancient grasp for acceptance? Is there a power of three that some people cling to? Is it real?
I never really gave it much thought.
I wonder what Grandma would say now that one of her son’s has passed-away, the third branch of my family tree to die in the last sixty days.
“They go in Three’s?”
Like a cellar dug under an old farm house – this familiar place is dark and dank
Sadness drips down walls near loneliness piled in corners
Tired thoughts and lost moments eat timeless air
He sits on the bottom stair holding a soggy box filled with related questions
How long will he stay?