To live, to love, too late.
To laugh, to cry, to hate.
To cry, decry, forgive.
Forgive, forget, and live.
Deep down you have to ask,
"Am I up to the task?"
If not, who else will be
remains a mystery.
A thought for you my friend,
what gain you in the end?
And if this query be
too difficult for thee,
then do not be depressed
and get yourself too stressed,
but rather just suppose
and lay down in repose.
To contemplate the sea
and things that seem to be
too complex to divine
and just a waste of time.
For nothing living lives
unless its thoughts it gives
the time to heal and mend
so wisdom it can lend
to those who do not know
that life is not a show.
No stage to trod upon.
No laughter track or song.
It's all in how we live.
Not performance that we give.
The friends we make or lose.
The paths we choose to choose.
My thoughts I give to you.
A modicum or two.
So that you will not wait.
To live, to love, too late.
-Psiphon
Down beneath the aquamarine sea
I found a mermaid looking up at me.
Her eyes were quite wide and seemed to ask
"Father are you still up to the task?
Of pulling me from the sea below
High into the sky so air can flow
Deep into my lungs and out my nose?
And am I still your sweet little rose?"
In answer I pulled her to the air
I gave her a kiss, I smoothed her hair.
Now she's no longer under the sea,
my cute little mermaid, my daughter, Abbie.
Cold and stoic it stood upon the reflective surface. Its image gazed back somewhat faded and darker. Not evil, no, but not good either. Blue was its hat upon its head. White were its raiments with black symbols upon them in orderly rows. No arms or legs, nor mouth had it. Yet, when it moved abstract became concrete; Ideas became words and pictures. But, for now, it sat silent, waiting.
What is it? Why a Bic pen sitting on a shiny desk of course! :-)
