5-17-2009    A writer without a pen 

         A writer with out a pen ,a clock with out a when,

Where is the door to leave,towards the sea that’s without me,

Where the eye of the bird in flight is truly free,

Where memories are to remain,black and white as a silent film, 

Where blindness can be seen,silence can t be heard,  

Where memories to remain, are abandoned as if left behind.

I am aware of my soul has been worn as shoes I have worn,

    Many miles of hard traveling,since the day I was born,

Has taken my breath further away,closer to where it is I am going..