They’re all dead
or distant or
disgruntled I suppose 
maybe even disappointed 
or disgusted too
but I did
what I had 
to do could 
when I can
and what’s left 
is wasteland awash 
with trampled dreams 
soaking in the 
blood of hope
foolish these things 
are these campaigns 
but such is 
folly of men 

No I say
nay or neigh
as I gallop
my reins free
and flapping away 
as I run 
towards the mountain 
through the valley 
to the sun
wishing to see
this first time 
I am stallion 

I can’t speak 
for silence for 
she has her 
very own voice 
the kettles blurble 
the faucets swoosh
the moan of
floors begging me 
lay off cookies 
these little whispers
I haven’t heard 
before being busy
but now silence 
is my lover 
and in this 
she lovingly coos

I go about 
my daily business 
of mostly nothing 
except for mop
or cloth or
clothes or sheets 
merrily mundane this
new normal is 
oh so pleasantly 
pedantic and perfectly 
pedestrian boring is
what I’m hoping 
dull is nice 
it lacks cymbals 
and tympani and 
big booming drums 
now the rhythm 
are my sighs
being my song 
a well-lived life 

I shall never tire
of watching things move 
children cars or people 
but I once water
having always moved too
am now a mountain 
and have no plans 
of ever going anywhere 
shoulder to shoulder forever