I think my heart is dying
and my pen it writes in rust.
My soul too old, it has decayed
and blown away like dust

I'm losing my ability to take a hand in trust.
I tire of giving, always in a whirl
and try to be your everything
your universe, unfurled.

I'm not strong as you might think
and all I want? You next to me to be,
And so I wait in silent misery,
in prayer you might notice me.


~~Fiddler 11/22/2001