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Personal JesusYou sing me to sleep every night,
Your voice soothes my nerves,
And your words sooth my soul,
Your songs wash over me as holy gospel,
I sing along with your songs,
I feel my soul heal,
And my pain is forgotten,
Worry and stress leave my body,
You'll never know how man times you,
And your beautiful words have saved me,
You are my personal Jesus,
I worship at your altar every night,
You will never know how much you and your music,
Have meant to me,
And I just want to say thank you,
Thank you for touching me,
And saving me.
Thank you, Sam.
Grey Sky FriendI sit in my kitchen and watch the rain drip down
The foggy window pane.
I close my eyes and listen to the sounds.
The rain calms these weary nerves of mine.
I get lost in the sound.
The grey skies seem oddly comforting
Like an old friend you haven't seen for ages.
The cool air fills my home,
And brings that familiar perfume,
I let the scent fill my nose,
And I wrap the knit blanket tighter around me.
I whisper my dreams and regrets to the rain
As I sip my coffee.
Days like these are just so peaceful,
They make me forget my troubles.
UntitledIvy has grown over her headstone,
A mysterious man in a long coat and hat kneels
To clear the fresh growth off her stone.
His fingers trace the letters of her name.
Each stroke of his fingers on the rough surface
Breaks his heart a little more than it was the stroke before,
And by the time he traces the last letter of her beautiful name,
He is sobbing into his hands.
Loud gasping sobs.
As he stands,
He takes a moment to regain his composure,
And says something softly and sweetly to her bones.
He pats the top of the headstone,
As he pulls a single white rose from beneath his coat,
And lays it against her name.
Just as he has done since the date of her death.
He whispers her name to the to the wind with a sob,
And leaves as quietly as he came.
A Turning Point in the Clockwork WarA war of attrition
depends on supply and drawdown,
how much you have and how much you use up.
With personnel, the balance concerns
the influx of recruitment versus
the outflow of casualties, deserters, invalids.
There is only so much loss
that a fighting force can sustain
and still fight.
Pilot Claude Archer was the first
to challenge his invalid discharge.
"I don't need legs to fly," he said,
patting the healed stumps of his thighs.
"My Osprey runs on elbow grease."
The members of the discharge board
paused and looked at each other.
What he said was true.
The Osprey-class fighter jets
relied on hand controls,
and a sharp eye and iron nerve.
Fingers flicked through the stack
of discharge papers -- so many, many pages.
So many soldiers lost, never to fight again.
They could not afford to let slip even one
who might be retained, somehow,
to face the front line once more.
Far less could the war effort spare
one of its best pilots.
So they put Pilot Archer back on the roster,
may as well buy another packcollapse, and breathe into the carpet:
sunday mornings are not
for falling apart, but damn
the amphorics, this
is not an atmosphere.
you fell in love like you always
wish you didn't, made all their
smiles replaceable, interchangeable,
fell asleep with shadows and kept
drinking, just letting yourself sleep
with blue pills
and tried not to scream.
(keep this image in your head:
fire and nectarines, a sudden jerk
of realization, inspiration
breaking your neck and leaving you forever
breaking bones is not so different
from breaking hearts - it's all about
the leverage, the angle, the mode
(and at least it wasn't personal;
it can color in your own guilt
for starting lines and never ending
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