My Girl

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My Girl

She’s a constant joy,

Tiny like a toy.

She leaps and prance’s,

Does hind-leg dances.

She slips and slides,

Does tummy glides.

She lays on all laps,

Loves all-day pats.

She’s a mirror of love,

Knowingly, from above.

 

Vaults And Bookcases

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A cool Sunday morning, wearing old brown slippers and warm bedclothes.

Looking through my window, and hearing crows singing, I suppose.

Sitting here on borrowed chairs, at a homemade table, built by dad.

Listening to my music of sorrow, ballads of truth, voices humming so sad.

The tunes vibrating softly, from my brothers equipment, quietly in tempo with my pulse.

Staring at the tall wooden bookcase, displaying visions from my deepest vaults.

The dusty shelves, lined with personal photos, whom I’ve lost and found over the years.

Mostly pictures of her, now departed for a while, always engulfing my many fears.

And images of family and friends, but they’re all smiling as if nothings wrong.

Oh how we mysteriously grin, for that camera pointed at our souls of song.

There’s memorabilia, and her little trinkets, all reflecting on my hidden veneer.

And unopened dry red wines, dotting the racks, like mirrors of yesteryear.

 

Home

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Home

Take me to my home.

Home is where my heart is.

Home is on that windy hill.

Home is a secret valley.

Home is a heavenly cloud.

Take me to my home.

I’m waiting here, alone.

I’m packed ready to go.

I’m departing this old place.

I’m leaving this world behind.

Take me to my home.

I know the beyond will be greener.

I know you’ll be there.

I know you’ve been waiting.

I know you’ll hold me again.

Hold me in my home.