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(I Could Tell Her So Much) But She's Not Here

Every Morning I Wake Up
With One Thought In My Head
I Want To Talk To Her
But I Can't
She's Not Here

Mother Mother
The Light Is Streaming Through
Could one of the Beams Be You
Rousing Me From My
Troubled Sleep

Are An Old Scar
That Never Seems To Keep
Every Morning I Literally Reach Out
To Scratch The Itch That Festers

Have I Not Let You Rest
You Literally Sit In An Urn
Maybe Imprisoned In My Brother's House
(We Promised To Let You Go
We Haven't)

Let Us Set You Free to Ride The Oceans

Even So
I Think Every Morning
You Would Still Find Me.

Copyright September 14,2014 All Rights Reserved By This Author
Meloo/Melissa A Howells straight from her Tilt-a-World
All dreams/ideas/prose/poetry are the legal property of this Writer

Written in all capitals because this is of great significance to me.
This does literally occur.  I awaken every morning hopeful, thinking that, wow,
I can speak to her. An then, the great heavy sadness ensues when I realize I cannot.

All of my poetry is in a theme which she would appreciate. Blue. Her favorite colcr.
The color of the sky. And of all wide open her words. She liked
all colors, but she loved blue.

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