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Still, More Time    NOV 6 2021


the bed is a bowl
from which I gaze up and out of
above the stars pour themselves out
across the darkness
they cease to speak
and lack the messages
I've longed waited for....

I climb from the bowl
and listen for any word
they may have
but its lost in the howling
of the East Wind

I long to understand
this language
is it a collection of neurons,
impulses
could some great spirit
send e-mnails from the sky
into my head

what's the real and what's
the divide
what's the reality
are the real
more like the dead

have I been watched over
do they speak
into the cochlea
winding road about
into my heart
do they breathe into my mouth
so they can reach my heart

the bed has stirred
the curtains flushed
the door creaks
a silent entrant
the feathers of a touch
the ghost of a leaning smile

stay awhile
for I'm lonely

at night breathing stops
and I move to make
it rise and fall again

what troubles sleep
what makes the bed
the place to be
when I've grown old
and I lean into the each day
as it releases me
into its end

where did I go
where do they go
where am I now
this middle place
between the slipping
of the light

I long for more
I long  for length
I long for what never was
and for all there is
I long to be small
I long to be held
I long for those in pain
and gone

and yet I'm glad
I've still more time to live.


LEGAL COPYRIGHT FOR THIS POEM 3:32 PM PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
NOVEMBER 6, 2021 TIME AND DATE STAMPED
AND ALSO FOR THIS WRITER/POET MELISSA A. HOWELLS
AND ALSO FOR THIS LEGALLY COPYRIGHTED AND REGISTERED SITE TITLE:
MELOO STRAIGHT FROM HER TILT-A-WORLD


MAYBE I KEEP REVISTING CERTAIN IDEAS AND THEMES...BUT THEY
PERSISTENTLY ARISE AGAIN AND AGAIN..AND SO I'LL CONTINUE TO WRITE ABOUT THEM
WRITING IS A PLACE , A HOME, WHERE YOU ARE FREE TO BE WHO YOU ARE
AND YOU HAVE YOUR OWN LANGUAGE, ONE WHICH IS DIPPED IN THE INK OF YOUR
THOUGHTS AND HEART.









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