When words won't form prose....

At times when words won't form prose..

And a void lives between the eyes..

We turn to words of days before...

To say again what has been said before...

This time we turn to words of great ..

That were found by someone before ..

That fill the void that existed there .. .

To let one think of things alone....

Sonet 81

William Shakespeare

Or I shall live your epitaph to make,

Or you survive when I in earth am rotten,

From hence your memory death cannot take,

Although in me each part will be forgotten.

Your name from hence immortal life shall have,

Though I (once gone) to all the world must die,

The earth can yield me but a common grave,

When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie,

Your monument shall be my gentle verse,

Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read,

And tongues to be, your being shall rehearse,

When all the breathers of this world are dead,

You still shall live (such virtue hath my pen)Where breath most breathes,

even in the mouths of men.

Beginning of Day

In the denseness of the sleep, the sound started to wake the soul,
The sound of tire traveling the road, splashing water from the road,
Gradually the eyelid parted to absorb the surrounding sound and life,
Parting the soul from sleep to life, the day dawns.
--
Thrashing about, removing the warming covers, the feet move to the carpeted floor,
Struggling to gain a balance between life and slumber and slumber still in control,
The body rises to stand, and move through the dark toward the beacon of light,
Turns on the florescent glow, and officially introduces the day.
Bringing the sight and sound of the days weather news to life.
--
The sound and aromas of coffee brewing, further stimulating the brain,
Finally the hands and eyes are more coordinated, as the keyboard is reached,
And one finger initiates the view to appear, the gray light of another place and time,
No presence there, than an Art Deco Maiden, guarding the resting place of the garments of change.
--
The caffeine jolts the mind awake to note the grayness before the eye,
Though time zones apart, the days begin to mirror, no sun is visible, the drought has ended.
The brightness of the resting plumage dulled by the surrounding blandness.
Save the adornments of the guarding sentinel standing by the way.
--
Struggling with life, to begin the day, the fingers move, the mind is blank.
Supping on the cup of brew, the struggle continues, to this end.

That day is here, life resumes, and soon the light will appear,
To send once more a day of toil, as the as the beginning of day .. is here.