invitation

is there anything so inviting
as a blank page,
an idle pen?
the silence beckoning to
scratching scribbling
and though the mind may
cease to flow
the hand still begs to fill
vacant lines

one more

oh, that sweet
bitter taste
of one more
day
hour
moment
the feeling of loss
before it's over
the difference of
one more and one last
caught between a smile
and a silent tear
tracing pain down
my face
a sob preceding
the aching void

oh, to be a blade of grass
to grow and be mowed
and grow again
to not know pain
or the heartache of
leaving a lover behind