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I'm back!

It's been a long, long time. For those of you that noticed, I apologise. I'm promising (acknowledging that I'm risking my credibility) that I will be more regular, and publish posts I'd promised. There will be pictures, and more of who I am, in what again I recognise too much of a rant about myself.

Stay tuned, I might just say something to capture your interest. :)

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The end of the world

If the world ended tomorrow, how would I feel? Would I be sad to see the end? Or think it no big deal? If the world ended tomorrow, would I cry? That with all my things in the world, me and my memories must die? I think it would be a catastrophe, of the greatest kind. I'd be miserable and lost and maybe out of my mind There'd be so much I had to say, so much I kept back, That I thought I had the time for, but it was time that I lack. There'd be memories and stories That'd die with me A lot of love and hurt, a lot of you and me. There'd be more than hurt, a lot of affection and love Which I share with beings but I rarely ever show For it's those you love, that you take for granted but its them you always need but they hardly feel wanted I'd want to yell it out From the top of the world That I've led a great life, and have liked and been loved. That I've been lucky to share these times With you and your smiles...
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Faraway

Safe in the knowledge, or so it seemed, That things lasted, she happily dreamed, Of the day he'd come back, the day he'd call, Of the day he'd embrace her, and call her his doll, Every birthday of his, she'd make a card, Plaster it on his wall, pristine white paint scarred, Every anniversary of theirs, she'd decorate the house, In the hopes it brought back her long lost spouse. Little did she know, in a village, in a faraway land, Was a prisoner of war, with no right hand, Learning to write with his left, an alphabet a night, For the days brought torture, and his never ending fight, Every birthday of hers, a tree he secretly planted, In the hope that some clean air to her he granted, Every anniversary of theirs, a word more he wrote, In the hope that one day, she'd read all he spoke.
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The night sees it all

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