Avoiding My Mental Patio - A poem of the travails of Writing like I do.

I've stayed off it,
the new, real-world patio,
trying to avoid the crowd
that would overwhelm its space,
barely enough for two chairs
and a table for writing.

I know they will gather
if I step out there
and try to use it.
The massive mob that dwells
inside my head telling stories,
each demanding their turn now.

But the damned Mental Patio,
where I retreat to so oft,
inside my slime filled skull,
forms up as it pleases,
and they gather up swiftly,
to heckle and jeer efforts.

Such is the case now,
as I tried telling tales
of Scorpio's many dangerous hunts.
They realized the patio'd materialized
inside my imagination's dark domain
where night exists amid daylight.

Billenius just sipped his tea,
sitting calmly as his norm,
but silent for the moment,
save the loud, nasty stares
he tosses at my fingers,
for not finishing his edit.

Scorpio leans over Troy Tanner,
who is boasting about something
involving rats in expensive suits
raising up various dead souls
to do some dark bidding
or take a fool's errand.

The hunter scowls, miffed again.
His tale is long ignored
and this isn't the first,
nor the last interruption suffered
in that story's winding path
to being finished up finally.

C.J. lounges, over by fire-pit,
still sipping his rum drink,
chuckling over the building row,
hoping for some serious fisticuffs
to allow him to stand
and talk about his story.

Others sit about, sulk silently
amid the shadows and slime,
hoping for their turn again
to spring back to life
under the dance on keyboard
my fingers doth slowly mangle.


Each tale tries to emerge,
each player and character vies,
for their little, tiny chance
to rise from the fog-bank
that clouds my mind's eye
and walk in words again.

I cannot force the issues,
and make them queue up
to tell their tales orderly,
as that way lies disasters
long ago discovered by trial,
and madness lies that way.

So I ride the tides,
letting each tale flow out
as it damned well wants,
not trying to force issues,
save in November's chill weeks
when I do NaNoWriMo's thing.

I know this is foolish,
but it seems to work,
for my sanity, at least.
And around my desk's clutter,
the characters find their places
to sit as I write...
Waiting for their chance to speak.

1July2016 -  a befuddled Dyfedd Rex.

Summer's Toll - A poem of my experiences.

Others love it,
and don't doubt me,
so do I.
Just not for reasons
that are shared.

Summer creeps up
and steals my sleep,
longer days meaning
shorter nights for sleeping,
amid the heat.

I walk about
gazing up after sunset
at the stars,
seeking the racing meteors
faint smoke trails.

And stay up
way too damned late
for that pleasure,
losing out come dawn,
light rousing me.

I cannot sleep
while the sun shines
like years before,
something broke in me,
stealing that skill.

Now, I suffer
the lack of sleep
from May's warming
until September's chills arrive,
unless August preempts.

Staggering about daily,
I try to press on,
not as easy
with more years added
to my burden.

But sleep will
eventually come around (please!),
and knock me
down for the count,
on some days.

27Jun2016 - A tired and frustrated Dyfedd Rex.

The desk replaces the patio... A poem

The desk cluttered up fast
once I built the damned thing.
Chips, cookies, and the secret stash
of Kookie Cola under it
for my writing binges.

That massive science encyclopedia
anchors one corner by itself,
stacked upon it, various astronomy texts
that warn me CJ's day
is coming here soon.

Notebooks occupy their turf,
spilling down to infringe upon
the boundaries and turf of others
marking the war to come
for my writing time.

My last few books
that survived the great purge
before I lost almost every thing
sit in the opposite corner,
westerns threatening my sanity.

This battered laptop reigns
over the last flat spaces,
only the coffee cup's little spot
for it to take away
or my arm's rest.

Stillness in my head
warns of a blocked mind,
but the whispers are slowly emerging
from the long, painful silence
hinting at tales forming.

This is my life.
This desk and my job,
no illusions twist my views now.
Then again, they probably do,
when I see this.

I see hope here,
not some pile of clutter.
I see potential to build again
the worlds I once before
held out for others.

But not now.
I have to go work.

Late Spring Thaw

The air warms,
finally thawing the frost
that held my mental gears
frozen into one place,
letting words flow.

Not yet raging,
like the June torrents
coursing through the Little Cottonwood,
that I cross frequently
heading to work.

Nay, just trickles
compared to such streams,
but they flow, at last,
freed of winter's grasp,
to find pages.

Like that stream,
I know my mind
often acts when trying this,
drying up to trickles,
filling after rain.

I press on,
seeking some distant goal,
not marking flood stages reached
as the words tumble
over stony brain,
to page
finally.

8June2016 - Dyfedd Rex

The Toll Must Be Paid - a poem of Life and its travials

Each year on the streets
built up a terrible debt
of pains and rest denied
that came home at last
knocking me on the ropes.

A month for each year,
my body hath loudly decreed,
I must give it rest,
lest it break down hard,
and it collected this year.

Since January's winter snows flew,
each week my body ached,
and refused to let mind
wander the paths of exploration
about stories, poems, even gripes.

This is the recovery week.
The one when I rose
back from the thiick ennui
and lift up my pen,
metaphorical, in these electronic days.

Now I will write again,
though no where as prolific,
until I build a desk
to work out tales upon,
and use at my leisure.

But, first there will come
a bed, real not floor
grabbed by spreading a bedroll,
to sleep upon at last,
and regain a pinch more
of humanity.

27May2016 - A slowly rising back up from the fog Dyfedd Rex.

The Lone Observer? - A Poem of Morning Skies.

The sky burned pink
above the Oqquirhs this morn,
telling me, along with aches
the body talks with,
more snow's coming.

Yet the chilly air
did not taste of moisture,
all that wrung out slowly
the last few days
by the inversion.

White clad mountains sat
under that salmon tinged vault,
a band nearly a handspan
above the valley's horizon,
touched with beauty.

Few see this sight,
or take that crucial moment,
to slow down, look around,
inhale a breath deep,
and just enjoy.

For most, the cold
means warming their cars up,
even against the current law
about idling that long,
for their comfort.

Somedays, I feel alone,
the only one enjoying such,
a tiny person amid masses
of rock and ice
that ring me.

Others, someone notes it,
speaks up about the beauty
and leaves me with hope
that not all suffer
blindness to nature.

As I sit here,
sipping coffee, the moment gone,
I wish for a camera,
to share that moment
and its serenity
with others.

12Jan2016 - A Peaceful and thoughtful Dyfedd Rex.

Smoking Lizard is Walking, Now. - A poem of bad drivers of winter

Smoking Lizard is back,
confined to tennis shoes, nowadays,
no wheel in his hand while wandering,
just the feet to command
as he steers flesh.

Amid pea-soup fog,
he guides me along sidewalks
crusted over with many slick ices,
black, white, and crunchy remains
of snow never shoveled.

He turns my head,
as I shuffle along slow,
noting the idiots out driving around,
too many to count accurately,
driving like it's dry.

He makes the feet
seek the few dry spots
or salt trails dribbled out thick
where the sanders spilled loads
as they prepped roads.

His wariness is there,
that old survival instinct intact,
finding the safe places to step,
letting me note the idiots
making risky driving decisions.

One foolish pickup rolls
out from the corner convenience,
pulling out across two traffic lanes,
fishtailing into the turning zone
between double yellow lines.

Another blazing down hill
lays on his horn loud,
never trying to slow breakneck speed
having run the red light,
sliding across the road.

Both roll down windows,
scream profanities, toss hand gestures,
then keep on their destructive quest
to find an early grave,
crunching into things soon.

Another revs his engine,
sitting at the stop light,
raging at the fact he's late
not seeing how far out
his hood now sits.

All this, and more,
like ice rivers flowing wetly,
waiting to bring my aching body
down to hard, waiting concrete,
the Lizard avoids easily.

Pipe clenched between teeth,
the Lizard brain just grins,
as he dances me along paths
he's been eyeing for weeks,
knowing what inversions bring.

Face wreathed in smoke,
I let him keep control,
trusting the lizard brain's decisions utterly
against those of distracted drivers,
who text on ice.

The fog thickens more,
as I reach a goal,
the diner, where I now write,
relaying the moves of fools,
while Smoking Lizard preens,
having succeeded again
in preserving
me.

With Caution, Wisdom, and
skills honed by long decades
of being in charge while smoking.
Me, I let him gloat,
until he screws up.
HE just grins,
and puffs,
content
with getting
me safely here.

7Jan2016 - A very smug Smoking Lizard, or is that Dyfedd Rex? Never can tell after a walk like this.

Murphy Deals Nothing But Nineteens - a Poem of Life as Cribbage

(been a while since I spoke of the cribbage game I so often see life as... bear with me, ye who know not that counting by fifteens is important somehow.)


Murphy showed,
took a seat,
shoved the board over,
and started to deal
without cutting first,
to decide.

Foolish me,
I accepted challenge.
And now stare hard
at cards that are useless
unless he plays wrong
during the peg,
unlikely event.

Nineteen hands,
all I see,
no matter who deals,
as my luck fades away
into the convective debris
cloaking night sky
rotating above.

Can't peg,
cannot even score,
even the crib's crap,
touched by a sinister hand
of his fickle mistress,
ol' Lady Luck,
joining in.

Life watches,
as does Fate,
God's too busy elsewhere
to interfere this time around,
so I slog on.
Each hand draining
away hope.

He rounds
that First Corner,
steamrolls across Double Skunk
as I creep down holes
that try to suck
me into Hell
each move.

Each failure
echoed in Life
who snarls over this
despite her best efforts lately
to let me recover.
Murphy's ideas, though,
are different.

Anger flares,
as he passes
across the Skunk Line,
with me eking out points
only when his ego
over-extends cards
he holds.

Mugged him
twice along way,
but still his pegs
keep their bloody, damned distance,
And the cards refuse
to cooperate any,
never delivering.

Three hands
it takes him
to manage to win,
pegging out by baiting me
into seeking six points
for three fives,
fourth his.

Another loss,
and anger rising,
I reset the pegs,
snarling at that distant cousin,
knowing it won't help
but needing to
vent steam.

No clue
how next game
will yet play out,
but looking at my hand,
I got an idea
I won't like
the results...
anymore
than
last
time.

17July2015 - A pissed off and desperate Dyfedd Rex, seeking at least an eight or twelve hand, to break this drought of luck.

Hunting of the Ilk - A poem of word slippage

Elusive beasts,
hiding from most folks,
amid the very crowds
they seek to be separate from,
as they move secretly
to avoid being found.

Shared beliefs
build up their herd,
in soft spoken words
murmured in quiet places, far scattered,
where they bunch up
before breaking off singly.

Long sought
by those who wish
for kindred thinking souls
who walk and talk the same
as those seeking them.
Yet, so rarely found.

Hunting for my Ilk,
only to find them gone,
or never in places I search,
leaves me wondering out loud
"Are they mythical beasts?"

They hide,
the Ilk I seek,
fearing becoming their foes,
the ancient predators called many names,
mostly, "the In-Crowd",
who destroy by popularity.

Brief glimpses
in hazy summer air,
smoke filled back rooms,
bookstores, libraries, even fancy coffee shops,
and, still, no proof
they really do exist.

Sneaking away,
the Ilk find refuge
away from all others,
even those of their own kind,
making them nigh impossible
to approach or join.

We all hunt Ilk,
to mingle with at will,
and let our shields drop down
to show the inner flames
our beliefs burn with.

Like minds,
proves yet another lie,
when one finds them,
bunched up at a watering hole,
for all their talk,
too many divisions remain.

Choices made
ban one from herds
the Ilk make daily.
Wrong politics, foolish religious beliefs espoused,
or just simpler things,
like what one wears.

Amid darkness,
punctuated by flickering light,
the ghostly prey wanders
only on the ether called "Internet",
to prove their existence
or lure more hunters.

Never found my Ilk,
save in that one place,
where electrons flow as strange streams,
and data forms wild forests
created from our imaginations.

Yet still I hunt
for them in our world,
to see if they do exist
or are just small figments
of my dark imagination.

Once more,
back to the hunt,
sneaking about the world,
ears open for the few hints
that they do exist.
For, I am still....

...Hunting Ilk.

14June2014 - Dyfedd Rex

Back on My Feet

The song was wrong,
I was not the one
that could not be beaten.
But, I battled through.

Got a job again,
hope it lasts a while,
let's me get onto ground
that is not quicksand.

One thing I forgot,
is the aches and pains
that will stay with me
from this long drought.

Four years without work,
most of it on streets,
and the body is complaining
each morning I rise.

Not about today's strains,
but the ones long suppressed
and only as I relax
coming to collect due.

Thank Mother Nature's mercy
that coffee is at hand
and works as advertised constantly
to get me going...
or at least into gear.
3April2015 - Dyfedd Rex

That #@#$%! Season Again.

The Dunderheads are rising,
up on both horizons,
Left and Far Right,
leaving me fearing greatly,
this coming political season.

Ware the Dunderheads roaring,
their battle cries strident
against the soft words
the Centrists all speak,
drowning out intelligent thoughts.

This is the season,
when the political cyclones
gather in their names
to entertains a few,
and sicken the rest.

You know this season,
by the counter's ticking
as we log cases
of "Foot in Mouth"
and "Pants Spontaneously Combusting".

Sadly, this yammering crowd
takes to damned long
to thin out enough
for reasonable folks' work
to choose be easy.

Yeah, mock me, gang.
But really, I'm right.
The earliest contenders in
are rarely the ones
who survive to end.

So, hear my call
ye of the words,
mockers of foolish actions,
and sane society members,
and unleash the Sarcasm.

For they resist Truth,
prove lacking of Honesty,
lack all moral Courage,
and worst of all,
can't take a Joke.

So smack them around,
until they speak truth,
or bow out fast,
lest we really unload
with more than Sarcasm.

For I have loaded
Double Ought Truth Shot,
soaked in Sour Sarcasm,
and carried by sabot
carved from pure Satire.

And that is just the first rounds, the rest? Oh, much more psychically damaging to fragile political hack egos.
27March2015 - Dyfedd Rex

Three Things to Avoid (Mental Note)

Avoid these three,
and with more care,
for the evils aboud now,
that you work again,
seeking your demise.

The stinging insects
that wander about more
as the days extend out
and warmth wakes them
from winter's sleep.

The old pride
that you once held
as you did your jobs
about your work there,
versus being yourself.

And the bait
others toss out constantly
to stir you to wrath
on the webs and
in real life.

Avoid them, indeed,
as I move forward
seeking some better way now
to deal with them,
unlike the past.

27March2015 - Dyfedd Rex

Shifting Electron Sands - A poem of the web's impermanence.

The footsteps distort
as the electrons dance,
never quite the same shape
each angle glanced or notices
as quarks shimmy about
inside charged particles
making things
change.

Will they stay?
Some warn of demise
to come in future days
as our electric desert blooms
into new fields swiftly
leaving behind barrens
where things
fade.

Is this true?
Will my footsteps erode
under the tides of technology,
as it advances towards goals
we still cannot see?
What marks remain
that I
existed?

No paper trail
can I preserve now,
under the onslaught suffered
as I wandered the wilds
of streets and hills
with no place
to call
home.

So, these sands,
verily silicon desert pans
that dunes of electrons froze
in shapes of words written
as my fingers danced
over keyboards often
are all...
fragile.

As if they
truly were just footprints
left across fast shifting sands.
Obliterated by time and winds
as change stirs media,
breaking bonds
down.

What mark, then,
will I have left,
who lack stone edifice's walls
for those who come after
to know there was
a man named
Dyfedd Rex
here....

in this desert?
Wanderings, utterances, writings, thoughts...
all rendered into shifting grains
as the electrons fly apart
seeking new array structures
and formats change
away from
impressions....
they once made?

Only the Fates know.
2 on the verge of 3 March2015 - Dyfedd Rex, wondering what his legacy truly will be.

Impish Urges

The ad dangled,
hung out there sweetly
like a low, inside heater,
so I swung away
aiming for bleachers.

Not an application
to the job offered
but a correction of error
some HR flak made
about qualifications needed.

Why a job
inside one particular state
needs a licence from another
lying with another between
still gives mirth.

I was nice,
just advising them about
the error made in haste,
rather than tossing snark
about substance abuse.

Still, I wonder.
Why can other make
mistakes like that one there,
and any of mine
cost me dearly?

I shade eyes,
watching the moment sail
out of the park slow,
no snark, no vitriol
save this poem.

So, beware all,
I'm in a mood,
likely to "T" off hard
on your errors now,
instead of letting
sleeping dogs lie.

26February2015 - An amused, but still jobless, Dyfedd Rex.

Another Day, Another Dance.

The old phrase
about steps forward
matched to ones
in other directions
leads me now
to believing truly
in Life's Dance.

Shifting around obstacles,
some moving about,
others stationary things,
I find myself
caught up daily
in this dance
around other's perceptions.

It's another day,
with new songs,
but the steps
remain so static,
one difficultly forward,
two side shifts,
and then backwards.

I cannot proceed
until others allow
this stupid party
to end gracefully,
and none seem
willing to stop
the preset motions.

Wondering what they
would do someday
if I refused
to play games
they feel necessary
to move around
this damned life,

After all, folks.
I'm a klutz.
One cursed with
two left feet,
and no longer
willing to prance
about this way.

Screw the music,
damn the moves,
and forget norms
set by others,
I change moves
and begin moving
forward only, determined...
to end it.

17Feb2014-A frustrated Dyfedd Rex.

The Physics of Damnation

Time dribbles by,

slowly melting tachyons darting

free of Inertia's cold grip,

or so I hope, 

as I wait. 

Life has compressed

down to a singularity

where all is jammed up

unable to move about,

before critical mass. 

Within gravity's well

my soul is bound

as well as the flesh,

within relativity's firm grasp,

even if mental.

Few see this, 

that physics applies aptly

to the mind and soul,

when one is sinking 

into entropy's grasp. 

The other end

of that terrible cycle

applies just as well, folks.

The implosion leads up

to big bang.

Releasing the power,

the matter, the heart and

even the fate of those

trapped within that point

where all combined. 

Will that moment

when mass combines perfectly

to force gravity to release

all from it's pull

come in time?

Or be late,

like so many times

before when hope's tiny glimmer

broke into black hole

leading to excitement.

Still I sit

waiting for that mass,

the tiny photon, the electron,

even a Higg's boson

might prove enough.

Just the shove,

to create the mass

that overcomes gravity's foul grip,

and pushes back hard,

with potential energy..

released suddenly

along with all

trapped within this darkness

that my heart created here

when it gave up,

until this moment.

Or the next,

or the last, 

I may not know, 

for here, time twists,

memory fails,

and hope 

better be silent. 

6Jan2015 - Dyfedd Rex, wishing others would make up minds, so I can grasp a tachyon or six...

Rejection Echoes. = yet another poem of job hunting and its agony.

(And probably the last for a while, stayed down to help some folks move this week... once that's done, I'm headed for the hills)..

Wandering the canyon maze,
trying each draw you pass,
to find a way back up
to where it's less confined
the options fade away.

Each job application tossed
into those snarled, shadowed gullies
leaves you like a loud shout,
and only a few times
finds the way back.

Rejections, though, they echo,
for some reason such return
over and over again for months
until at last withering away
along with your soul.

Not just one time,
but several bounce off walls,
distorting your perception of the source
amid their confusing origin points
as the litany builds.

You're not the candidate,
we moved on with others,
a decision not to fill position,
all come back to you
with each cry made.

Even the most steady
will lose their path eventually
under such a barrage of sounds,
even if only blinking letters
upon a small screen.

Long after you surrendered
and moved to the next,
those echoes leave on very befuddled
about if companies are lost
as you in here.

Four years, nearly, now.
This is no longer fun.
Stopped being that long damned ago.
Now, I no longer find
amusement in those echoes.

Where others find despair,
I gain only deep disgust
drinking the bitter waters down here
in the Canyon of Unemployment
seeking the tablelands above.

Months after job yodeling,
the answers come back gathered
into rolling thunder sound wolf packs
that crush one before fading
the last echo soft...
in you soul...
which whimpers.
surrenders...

You want just shelter,
or to lay out gently
into the violent stream carving this
deep groove in your life
and be swept away.

All because things echo,
keep coming back to haunt
your hopes and dreams with those
bitter words, between the lines...
You're not the one.
No One Is.
Keep Trying.

With nothing left inside,
the echoes of rejection letters
enter your mind and broken soul,
never to fade away again
bouncing around in there...
eroding your will...
breaking spirit...
until...
you give in
or find at last
the canyon's mouth,
or the pass atop it
to move over ridges
to a gentler place.

14November2014 - Dyfedd Rex

I am no Frost - A poem about my skills as poet.

I am no Frost.
I lack the skills
to bend the words
to my intent.

To carry my feelings
and deeper meanings well
amid commentary on Life
as he did.

I am not Kipling,
not by damned sight.
Missing the deep insight
of the heart.

And that easy twist
to lay out Truths
we often miss out
seeing around us.

I lack the rhymes
that others craft skillfully
dealing out just words
in some manner.

I will never stop,
though others urge me
to lay aside pen,
just being me.

For words are me,
as much as blood
carrying something else out
from my soul.

I am Dyfedd Rex,
and still another guy
known to those met
as just Dave.

One last day posting
one last pass over
the tales and words
left to tell.

So far, it ends
on that jolly holiday
amid the winter snows,
when hearts warm.

That'll be The End
of the words, perhaps,
lest some spill over
into New Year.

But none will rise
to post in real-time
after two more sunsets,
for silence falls...

Needed silence, indeed.
Time to reflect upon
what I have said,
or not spoken.

We all withdraw inside
our shells at times,
so let me "turtle"
and find myself...

To see what failed
to come out before
and still needs lain
out for eyes...
besides the ones
in that mirror
which judge
most harshly
the guy
who meets them.

29September2014 - Dyfedd Rex.

Urges and Gut Feelings

Folks urge you
to keep the Faith,
fight off Fate's evil hands
and keep pressing on
not seeing things.

Others know not
what you might face
in the daily trials Life
tosses you about with
as you survive.

The speak loudly
about it being Depression
not hearing that you passed
that point long ago
progressing to Disgust.

Born of Anger,
fueled by other's attitudes
I now walk more carefully,
as their minefield attitudes
leave me worried.

Hear the lament of the outcast
who denies the urges of others,
instead following those baser Gut Feelings
to find a new path ahead.

They walk the streets you do,
but have no hopes left inside,
only anger and distaste at what
their Nation has turned into lately.

Fools dare judging,
even against their Commandments,
what others must do now
to find some Redemption
back to Society.

Idiots speak loudly
accusing the fallen often
that losing Faith is Depression
failing to see faces
twisted with Disdain.

My path ahead
is not yours, morons.
It is mine, and lonely.
I will walk away
not in fear...

...but in Disgust
at how we failed
the dreams of our ancestors
of a better Society

Hear the Lament of the Outcast
Damned by foolish Judgement of others
who know not the roads walked
to reach this point of surrender.

We walk into the dark shadows
not seeking oblivion and final solutions
but to regain our own grounding
amid the storms that ruined lives.

We seek not your medication bottles,
but a peaceful place to meditate
upon the road to that point
and where we also went wrong.

You can ignore
the words I lay
here into the electronic "Cloud",
but not the Truths
I speak of.

We were exiled
for many, varied reasons,
but all seek but Redemption
not at Society's bench,
but in mirrors.

I need time.
Time to heal wounds,
time to reflect on actions,
time to choose words
for my return.

I will return.
Not avenging angel style,
nor as Doom's Dark Prophet,
but an outside observer
of your Society.

Hear the Lament of this Exile,
cast out of your vain Society,
and realize your own parts involved
in my fall from high places.

I speak now the last words,
Lay out the final, sad poems.
One last yet to share here,
then I fall into brooding silence...

...As I reflect upon the failures
not just of my own self,
but the Nation once so great,
and how we let Her fail..
.
The Promises made in Her name...
The Oath about Justice for All...
The Dreams of Land of Opportunity...
The Hopes of Better Days Ahead...
The Future now tarnished so vilely
by what we all let happen...

Not just to me...
but others also,
fallen aside,
forgotten.
Cast Out.
29September2014 - Dyfedd Rex, ready to walk away, pull out his soul, and give it careful scrutiny for damage and ability to repair.

Amid the Amids... A Poem of the toll I've suffered.

Amid the words,
there lay hope, once.
Now scattered to the winds
as some fools attack
tossed them aside.

Amid the dreams,
I once crafted words,
to build up the hopes
others still longingly nourished
to get something.

Amid the winds,
I still will wander,
watching the world from afar
as I sit, smoking,
seeking to recover.

Amid the storms
that have battered me,
the soul still yearns comfort
as I prepare now
to walk away.

Amid that soul,
stories still beg telling,
and I fight them back
telling them to wait
until peace arrives.

Amid the chaos
others created for me,
by turning me aside, rudely,
an island of peace
still does exist.

Amid the stars,
a tale slowly builds,
so I pack writing supplies
in case it springs
out of mind.

Amid my mind,
there is nothing left.
The grind broke the will,
the spirit, weeping, fled,
to seek succor.

Amid it all,
my fingers still dance
across keys, paper, and life
seeking to keep moving
as I fade.

Amid the silence
that soon shall fall,
others wonder why I quit
not seeing the effort
and its toll.

Amid the wilderness,
where I am headed,
there are no damned fools
or so I hope,
to crush me.

Amid those trees,
lulled by whispering breezes,
I pray my soul receives
just a small recovery
from his load.

22September2014 - A weary Dyfedd Rex.