is it internal youth or eternal youth?

i'm already too old inside, bogged down by responsibilities i never wanted, horrors of living for an extended period of time.

i've never wanted to live forever

i've never wanted to live as long as i have currently

i don't want to outlive those i love, althought i know i will have to

i would drink a fountain of knowledge

of love

of peace

of happiness

that's what i need abundance of

that's what i want overflowing

I visualize our end thus:

crowded, yet not...

dusk as if, though dawn;

dizzy like a balloon

and simultaneously

short of breath...

I turn to 

graze the floor 

with my eyes

one last time

detaching myself

...sorrowfully...

from all senses

as my shadow

...that once most 

constant solace!

rises against me

no longer

to follow

as a servant

might...

it reaches out

charred fists

to take its

master down

as we meet

this once

vis a vis

Angel of Death I did not recognize thee.

#WhatDoesTheAngelOfDeathLookLike #Challenge

March 3rd, 1943

D3ar Lov3,

Th3y mov3d m3 to a hospital in Britain. Sorry for th3 funny l3tt3rs, but this typ3writ3r is missing a k3y. Obviously. It's th3 only typ3writ3r my r3port3r fri3nd could sn3ak in. Appar3ntly th3y think th3 only writing that should b3 s3nt out of h3r3 is cold t3l3grams t3lling wh3th3r w3'r3 d3ad, missing, or bar3ly aliv3. Th3y wouldn't l3t m3 borrow pap3r and a p3n. L3astways not until th3 surg3ry is ov3r. But don't you worry, Lov3, it will b3 soon.

Th3r3 was a t3rribl3 numb3r of d3aths today in London. My fri3nd told m3 about it. Som3 panic rushing to an air-raid sh3lt3r. Awful things ar3 happ3ning in th3 world. Som3tim3s it driv3s m3 to th3 point of d3spair. But th3n I r3m3mb3r that good things happ3n too. I think of you and our darling Ros3, and littl3 Martha. I think of th3 oak tr33 by th3 cr33k--you know, th3 on3 with that big rop3 strung up lik3 a swing--and how w3 us3d to sit th3r3 and talk for ag3s. And laugh.

W3 laugh3d a lot tog3th3r, didn't w3? And w3 will still. I promis3 you, Lov3, this war will 3nd. It will. This too shall pass, you always say. And wasn't it you who told m3 that th3 gr3at3st joy can only b3 had by thos3 who hav3 und3rgon3 th3 gr3at3st suff3rings? That only thos3 who hav3 b33n sick can fully d3light in b3ing w3ll?

Th3n may God l3t my suff3rings b3 as gr3at as I can handl3, so that wh3n I com3 hom3, our joy may last us a lif3tim3.

I'v3 got to k33p this short. Th3 nurs3s ar3 sn3aky around h3r3. Can't b3 caught.

I lov3 you. Giv3 my lov3 to 3v3ryon3.

God bl3ss you until I s33 you again.

Yours, Sam.

Do you know how long I have waited for someone to comment on one of my posts and give me a heart? And then I realized, What if there's someone out there that has that same dream? I could be that person that gives them a heart. So now I comment with hearts.

I do not know how it could be

No terrible consequence to see

Blood on my hands

And the disgust beneath

Someone else's grief

To know it was because of me.

Life and breath

Beauty and depth

Stolen away

Because of me.

A denial of someone's dignity,

An offense against my own.

I do not know how it could be

No terrible consequence to see

Someone dead because of me.

i whisper wishes

of feathery sleep

to a princess trapped

beneath water stained skies,

lost in a forest

of paint peels and cracks

i whisper wishes

of feathery sleep

to a dreamer haunted

by wingless flight,

locked in a cage

too high to survive the fall

i whisper wishes

of feathery sleep

to a heart cursed

with fading stars and

a waning moon

in the raven room.

Donald and Putin sittin' in a tree.

Just talking foreign policy.

He tweets and tweets and tweets some more.

While Putin stashes nukes galore.

Vlad kills dissenters and pisses on the ashes.

Donald is concerned with cheating on his taxes.

Pooty says he'll hack the DNC.

The Don says it's easy just grab 'em by the p*ssy.

While Time says Donald is the man of the year.

Putin knows there is more you'll fear.

Clinton's on the run, a sorry sad sack.

She should've let Bernie lead the attack.

For even a socialist would have got my vote.

I guess we are all f*cked, we're in the same boat.

A man gets into a cab at the airport. 

The man -- Adam McArthur -- had a baby face, but the bluish shadows under his eyes and the heavy creases of his brows made him appear much older. He wore a smart camel overcoat, navy suit, dark skinny tie, and black boots. The cab driver's -- Donnie Howard -- eye caught the gleam of an enormous gold watch as Adam slid into the backseat and placed his duffle bag onto the floor. 'Rich guy, huh?' Donnie thought as he absentmindedly traced the face of his own beat-up old Timex.

"Where to?" Donnie looked into his rearview window, but Adam's eyes were locked onto the screen of his smartphone. Taxis next in the pick-up line honked impatiently while a traffic monitor ushered him forward. Donnie rolled his eyes and asked a bit louder, "Hey, buddy, where to?" 

Adam finally found what he was looking for and pressed his phone against the plexiglass partition. "Do you know where this is?"

Donnie squinted his eyes to focus on the tiny print of the address. 'Howe Street?' He knew the whereabouts. "Sure, I can get you there." Donnie pulled away from the curb and followed the familiar directions to the freeway. 

In the backseat, Adam gazed out the window, his eyes scanning the buildings and new developments. "Wow, this place has changed," he said in a small voice.

"Yeah, lots of changes all over town. You from here?" Donnie asked.

"Born and raised."

"No kidding? Me, too. At least you got out," Donnie laughed.

Adam's face flushed slightly. "Yeah, I guess you could say so."

A strained silence spiraled uncomfortably in the cab until Donnie couldn't stand it any longer. "So...you here for the holidays?" 

"Yeah."

'Whatever,' Donnie thought after failing to get a response and turned the volume up on the radio to fill the void.

____________________

Donnie periodically shifted his gaze to the backseat, but Adam continued to stare out the window. 'What, too good to talk to an old cabbie?' Donnie thought bitterly. Adam was the third business-type passenger to ride in Donnie's cab that day, and the two before him had hardly spoken a word to him. 'Whatever happened to the human connection? Especially around the holidays, for Chrissake!'

Donnie was what his grandkids would call an "old-fashioned man." His children had tried to give him an iPhone for his birthday, but he took it back to the store because it was "too complicated" for the old timer. Now, his contracting company had installed new fandangled GPS units into all the cabs and encouraged drivers to use those instead of radioing into the office for directions. Donnie's rheumatic fingers struggled with the buttons on his GPS unit, but his boss insisted they were "the future" and something about keeping up with "those Ubers."

"Hey, buddy, we're getting close. What was that address again on Howe?"

"Fifty-four ninety-two, Howe Street."

Donnie clumsily punched the numbers into the keypad and eyed the screen while it buffered. "In eight hundred feet, turn left onto Hightower Road," a gentle yet cold female voice informed him.

"It's crazy what these little machines can do. When I was a kid, we'd just use a map! Now your generation would be up a creek without those thing-a-ma-jigs in your pocket!" Donnie looked back and caught Adam's taut lips upturn into a weak grin.

"My Pop says that all the time."

"Ah, one of the old boys, yeah?" Donnie chuckled. "Well, he ain't wrong."

"In five hundred feet, turn left onto Grand Avenue." 

"Unfortunately, we're a dying breed, ya know?"

Adam nodded. "It's a damn shame."

"In six hundred feet, turn right onto Rosecrans Boulevard." 

"I hope you enjoy your time with your family." Donnie tapped the steering wheel in time with the turn signal. "That's what the holidays are all about, you know?"

"Yeah, I'll do that."

Donnie looked up at the wrought-iron gate, and his heart sank.

"You have arrived at your destination: St. Mary's Cemetary."

Donnie stole a glance in his mirror at the young man's impassive face.

"Christmas is -- was -- Pop's favorite time of year."

"I'm sorry, buddy. I bet your Pop was a good man."

"He was." Adam reached into his back pocket to pull out a worn leather wallet and tried to read the fare on the meter. "How much do I owe you?"

Donnie shut off the meter. "It's an even twenty." 

Adam handed him the cash and grabbed his duffle. "Thanks for the ride."

His hand hovered over the door handle, but Adam couldn't seem to open the door. He continued to stare up at the chapel on the hill where, inevitably, Donnie knew his Pop would be waiting for him. 

"Take your time, I'm in no hurry."

For another few minutes, Adam sat in the back of Donnie's cab, his hand wavering over the door handle until he was ready. Once he had left, Donnie gave him a little wave through the window and watched him trudge up the hill towards the chapel to say goodbye. 

Donnie looked down at his watch to check the time, shook his head in disbelief, and then smiled to himself. He reached up and pulled down his visor; a faded photo of his wife Betsy smiled back. 

"Well played, old gal."

Donnie grabbed his worn woolen coat and trapper cap from the trunk and made the same trek up the hill to say hello.