Finding what's left.

I closed my bedroom window this morning on the birds wake in song, but not in vain, I love when in the wee hours that song is easily discerned. I was cold, for the first time since I can remember, I was cold from the run of the winds across me. As I lay in total silence, I felt my self searching for what's left of my life. I thought, today I would cook a good meal and since I am an artist, was an artist, have always felt that the palette is - what it is - and today it would be Portabella mushrooms, onions and handmade pasta. On the the side colors of tangerine, cantaloupe, baby carrots, celery, cucumbers and dicon with parmesan curls. I just couldn't enjoy laboring through trying to eat it. After I peeled open the tangerine I was immediately pulled into Christmas memories, neading the flour and egg I felt my mother's hands squeezing mine and with the first lemon cut I heared the ice cubes cracking and clinkling in pitchers brought out to the garden, long forgotten, brought to me, lemonade. will I forget the wake of mornings song birds without searching, what's left of me?

Where are you?

Will you be magic to-night and put dreams in bed with me, now, soon? Fires of, fires beneath, embers. What fuels this constant burn? I will soon call out for the Dragons night, but fear this fire is stronger again, than he. I wish for such strength that is not given me, where are you? I own pain, I am with a hot, iron yoke, too tight and ill fitting that my arms are heavier than fear and even though, I feel all this, it is my stomach that envies constant loss. How fragile can ones ache be that is as delicate as the minds tissue, split, cried and intimatly parted raw, but left breathing in gasps of prayers for defeat. Somehow this can not be what it is with out the Dragons fog, where are you? Bastard, where are you?