Beyond today, and alone.

Tomorrows - if they open with a day break,
Will your future and my devout committment make.

There is no together in the consequence of past times.
Mostly, all the story has been told in rhymes.

As often- rain comes from aloft, washing the new leaves,
The used ones, fading, shriveling, gone. No one grieves-

For there is LIVING in one's own spaces, never interdependent;
That is what grace is.

How much is YOU, how much is ME? A question never to be-
Alone, beyond today. A force not meant - but moving free.

Endeavors bought by intense deceit, their dollars colored
By the black of heart and selfish , always being forward;

Does make the magik cease, and wind blow cold.
There is no pain like tragic: disabled, unwanted and old.

The long gone light of gaity, jumping around from room to room
While light notes played in sync, staying only on the bloom,

Not reaching for the roots, and grasping all the flo' er
A bending, wrenching, tearing stem- bent low by evil's pow'r.

Oh, the garden has it's wilting way, recovering his depth.
The bud not come, and color gone- The viewers came and wept.

Now lost to them... the garden blooms. It's time has come again,
Yet while it bred under the cloak... arrogance caused much pain.

To such a one, demanding all- That Red will shine alway...
A plastic flo'er, or perhaps silk? Can brighten up the day?

Pretending is like facsimiles, they look the same- oh HARK.
He tried to "garden", had no touch. I think he missed the mark.

Too many tears. Too much to think. And so much 'wheres' to travel.
Usage of time, and often rhyme... the former will unravel.

What will I know, in long lost paths? A different garden grow.
I cannot walk this way- of more.... no more, this I know.

Let raindrops fall or watering cease, or blooms of lilacs scent-
Weaving the tapestry of yesterday, redoing- reforming- reinvent.

A shadow or web, or breeze or word- must not adhere, remain,
The time would have been, could have been... ISN'T-
All is vain.