i am doing my best
painting the back room
with the tin-can colours
you left behind
and some mornings
i almost find you
in the mix
of oily blues
that you said
you loved so much
when you looked
into my eyes
and lost yourself
in the hint
of light
peeking through
my constant sadness
and shining
back at you
i am doing my best
watching babies
growing into
children chasing
all kinds
of bubbles
of experience
across the back lawn
until the skies
darken
and storm clouds
rush toward them
at an impossible speed
quickly turning their
dancing ways
into something
even more frightening
than the end of days
i am doing my best
to hold off
the sickness
and the infirmity
of age
doing what i have to do
to keep these secret flowers
blooming in a heart
so fragile
that i can only guess
when each bloom
will turn from its
moment of beauty
and wilt to seed
in autumn's
collapsing sun
until each suffocates and fails
under winter's frost
that covers each
and every one
i am doing my best
to be the man
i promised
i would be
holding fast
to the railing
on the stair
that led to
the bedroom where
we lay in wounded
puddles of love
and where every desire
seemed so
easily satisfied
until the hope vanished
into blank stares
and every shared dream
disappeared
along the trails of
desperate dust
caught in the half-light
of some make-believe moon
filling every corner
with killing lies
that no amount of healing faith
could ever again
truly redeem
