364 days of aRt. DAY SEVENTY-ONE.

an image she sees
a twisted belief of what life's supposed to be
and i'm left surfing seas of her misery
i'm certain she needs something i can't conceive
so i leave her, knees bent, deep breathing
her emotions clothe her and show her true colors
black and gray like the day, she grows older and ever so colder
she wants me to hold her
but i am her past not the moment she knows
she drinks like a baby forgetting her age
and weighing the consequence of turning a page
in her life, she's the beggar and i am the sage
what will it take to bring light to her haze

Blog about the piece:
I have to tell you that this writing was inspired by a friend's writing. I am going to post it because you have to give props when props are due... thanks Niall Oneill.
"The truth is . We're ruthless . A suit and nice shoes . Is the same fool . Broke and toothless . Because the truth is . We're all clueless . And if you thought Anything different . Then you're stupid! . You are nothing More . than your Mother bore . No You Are Less . You are colder . Your blood does not course Quite as fresh . The beat is slowed to the rhythms in your chest . Now your aged skin sags . with remorse and regret . Have you seen too much old man?. Did you not do enough old man? . Always a step behind old man? . Was it too hard to find man? . Not enough time old man? . It’s okay. You're not the Only one. We all Come in Raising hell . And some go out Sucking their Thumbs"