The often lonely life of a writer
(or typer) is beleaguered by tighter
instincts of impending doom unless love
or a muse come into view like a shove.
Love lasted up until death did us part.
Luckily, close to thirty years had passed
together like hands always clapping heart,
knowing they will tire or death will make past.
Memories materialize almost
every day and night, sometimes intruding
upon moments of self-mirth marrying
feelings and thoughts foreign to any host.
A baby’s photo only illustrates
years are like seconds between spread-out dates.
...
The photo above was taken by a sister many years before I became a pussycat. Then, I had a lot to smile about. Life must have seemed simple. My first costume ever, on my third or fourth birthday, was of a cat. Life can make a joke, sometimes, except that it does not tell it. You have to find it out. You have to feel it. It seems that I did. Still, I suppose, life has always one last joke. I have an idea about mine. It is happening right now. Can you think of yours?
About the Creator
Patrick M. Ohana
A medical writer who reads and writes fiction and some nonfiction, although the latter may appear at times like the former. Most of my pieces (over 2,200) are or will be available on Shakespeare's Shoes.
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Timothy
My fingers inch closer to the keyboard, itching to obliterate a day's worth of work. It's some of my best writing I've done to date, but at what cost? The words seem to bleed, dripping onto my desk. For a millisecond, I'm sitting in front of a crime scene, looking at dead, begging eyes. Why? Why me?
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