the pen won't rest

1210/1997

and the pen does not

stop me if I go too far

from my point me

in the right direction

if followed by clouds and rain

the skies tears

on pale cheeks and skin

turning red when touched

by the thought I would

know by now

and again I see the writing

on the floor cracks under

too many feet

rising to the occasion

then falling to the floor again. . .stop to think I may be moving

slowly at times down

to the end of the road

where this race ends

and another soon to

begin and away from

but close enough too

much more to come

back tomorrow

always twenty-four hours away

behind lie the days we cannot

return to that day

speaking loud and clear. . .