No more the fighter,
I was as a boy.
Now a lover of people,
a bringer of joy.

I am for happiness,
for all whom I see,
but I'll write for love,
when I look at thee.

It's 3 o'clock in the a. m.
I am off to bed,
and I'll dream of you,
its already been said.

I love you more,
than words can describe.
It's always a pleasure,
when you are by my side.

Write for me on the morrow.
Write for me today.
Write to me about love,
Which will not go away.

If you write within the window,
of any early, evening moon,
it means you will be with me,
ere tomorrows, noon.

A what if question.
My reply, simple,
as it was, then.

A prolific writer,
who does simple prose,
using Winters physical light.
Costly, I suppose.

What kind of man,
what kind of brain,
would write about others,
while his world would remain.

He was a happy man,
with, a sadness inside,
where memories were born,
after a love had died.

Time passes,
memories remain,
of my love, as I,
try, my thoughts, to retain.

Sometimes a small thought can
manifest itself into a fantasy.
I should re-write this into a story.

A re-published poem,
from 6 years ago.
about the slow slide,
into Dementia.

There are many reasons,
for seeking solitude.

Trip the light fantastic,
please don't fall out of bed,
for I need to see you,
before you have fled.

Please tell me tomorrow,
if you still feel this way.
If you don't, I'll understand,
then I'll go away.

You mean more to me,
than my words can say.
If the feeling is mutual,
then, here I'll stay.

Do you think it's right,
to pass judgement on me?
Found all of my flaws,
so, you can now, see?

When your hatred,
exceeds ice in a iced tea,
you will be a sinner,
The same as me.

Don't say you love me,
even if you do,
I will vanish now,
and there will only be you.

It was year 2001,
we knew nothing,
about, what was to come.
We were happy,

the Century was done.
We, never thought,
we'd see the World succumb.
Yet here we are,
my wife is gone,
and I must pretend,
to live my life, like a song.

When it is over,
will you relent,
or have the damages,
left you with your nose bent?

Anger, should be,
to understand,
except when your feet,
are stuck in the sand.