Just a note.

Eloquent, and it has it's way of making me feel powerful,
But only when I am in control of my physical self,
And with a voice long gone ringing still,
I find I am melancholic on a Monday afternoon.
Just again, would it be, a recieved request and a dull reaction?
Does he know I'll act his final wish?
And where is my guide throughout all of this?
Oh, and as she sings around midnight,
It becomes the thought that dwells and occupies,
It becomes the inkling that wakes me, and keeps me that way.
Let's hope he sleeps.
Can he so, with such a pain in such a place,
And does he rest when others pace?
It's the view through the back of a glass bottle,
Its the sun aching through in a mild January,
And all the emotions lingering from the past,
Yet creating little today, but motivation.
The buses here, sound as they do in London town.
And where do I really miss any more?
I have become the wanderer, true and so, not waiting or aiming,
Just lingering as the scattered leaves, left here from last year.

Just another thought or four, before I take one of our beloved drives,
And how the summer sings so sweet, just once, a once in a memory,
For I've something to strive for now,
A mind that wonders for me,
And an eye that daily looks for me.
Suddenly it is quite the occasion, just about all of them,
And I do not sit in regret, or in wait of a call from home.
I am building a home upon my own back,
For it seems it is where ever I want it to be, these days.
I can sleep any where.
And so I tread another path,
With hope in my stride.
All the deeds will be done, and so they can rest,
Only after, finally, I realise I've something to come back to.
Not merely a puppet, but an achievement.

I fight the letters.