Content with Simply Dreaming

The long morrow

sits silently ahead, with

no white noise to cloud

it's ears.

It has always been there,

waiting steadily for my

arrival and

it's held the same

patient gaze

that is content enough to wait through all of my

yesterdays,

todays,

and tomorrows.

I don't know what I'll be wearing then, maybe the same as now,

or perhaps I'll don

a more old lady nursing home

look.

Who knows

what tattoos I may have by then,

showing my dissatisfaction for the

way history happened.

I may be wrinkled from old age or prematurely grayed

from the stress of carrying all of this

weight.

I may have a baby, or two, or more,

or none at all.

The morrow waits

to finally taketh away

the morseful, eternal

liftime of

welling up, involuntary sadness,

the everlasting yelling at, fighting for, wondering, pondering

peering, loving, pining, pining for someone to love,

to love you back, gossiping, watching, waiting, working,

drinking, sobbing, drinking some more, shaking, thinking

dreaming, surviving

all will be

removed

in a sweeping brush of

air.

I could not

possibly imagine the

way it would feel

in my mortal, waking

mind. Not even

Buddha or

Pat Robertson could explain the

feeling

accurately.

The long morrow,

patiently awaits my

arrival.

For now, I must remain content with

simply dreaming.