Birthday wishes & a bowl of soup,
sticky-notes like a bookmark fill,
roasted meats with beer & laughter,
the last ruling judge in the OT; was what mattered,
as the fly of the may, ephemeral was to be,
swift & fleeting, thoughts keep running.
Choices were mounting, a choice it was to be,
not made, not heard, embers left burning.
Ice was freezing, pain was hurting,
not felt, unvoiced, ears kept ringing.
Those words like fusilar, inking the being,
as polaroids on an onion skin.
Little star, little star, shining so bright,
eyes made blind, where once there was sight.