Bone on bone.
Neither synovial fluid or
Sinewy tissue remains
To ease the grinding
Photo by Mark Rowland via flickr: https://www.flickr.com/photos/60912828@N00/4303494455
Here's to the people with rose colored glasses
The ones who see starlight where others see none
The ones who hope wildly and love with abandon
The ones who drag on 'til the victory is won
Here's to the people who suffer the laughter
Of other's who've left their rose lenses unworn
The ones who face problems as puzzles not blockades
The ones who step into each new day, reborn
Imagine the world without rosy hued lenses
A world without vision or dreaming or hope
So here's to the people with rose colored glasses
Who see life itself as a kaleidoscope
I'd spent the day cleaning my son's room - doing more than intended, yet it still seemed not enough. No longer a child, he was quite able to clean his own room, but I told myself it was a gift. As my body protested, I searched for satisfaction, trying to create order out of chaos, trying to reclaim the past - trying to retake what was taken - trying rebuild what Lyme Disease broke.
But, the past is carved in stone.
I think of my boy, shaking it off like dust on the dresser, and smile.
Written on March 3, 2014 from a prompt on Photo Play Monday at Tweetspeak... Ode to the Home.
Art and poem by Donna Falcone May 13 2019
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