Memoirs of a Time Well Spent

When the clouds of gray
have stopped,
clogged with rain,
emotions are chopped
into the words of the slain.

Why do the weary weep?
When all they are is tired,
tired of counting sheep
to keep from being wired
on an addiction so clean:
the way white doves fly free.

Where do the words cease to exist?
Beyond the plains, reality must exist
to give me a reason to stay
and fight another day,
even though all of my doves
have flown away.

Who has the right to take you?
Steal you away from the breath of life
to leave us crying like fools.
only God himself has the right.
but this time by far,
God himself has inflicted this scar.

How can I put this simply?
You were taken away too soon,
beneath the rising sun
and the setting moon.

Simply, you fell like
rose petals onto concrete
on that dreary day
turning into ashes
as you slowly slipped away.