• afamiliarvoice 10w

    The basement.

    Oh lord. not again.
    I have go back down and get something from down in.
    Flip the light switch and head right in.
    Into the twilight zone of nostalgia.
    Why do the these memories turn into a form of psychalgia?
    Its wierd, and it's more common than you think.
    But more than I'd ever care to feel.
    Or tell.
    Well. I have pictures Down here, that are priceless.
    That could never sell, way too valuable memory wise as well.
    Painted when she was in her own hell.
    Knowing she was dieing, covering her face of pain with a veil.
    And she did it so well.
    You would never know, or could tell.
    she'd give you a laugh, and a smile that would melt.
    Then give you a kiss and hug, and bid you farewell.
    But who knew It would be the last.
    It came out of nowhere, and she headed down really fast.
    And I was too slow.
    To show.
    To tell.
    How much I loved her in person.
    Instead of sending it by mail.
    To have guilt about your shortcoming demise, to no one's avail.
    I should have been there more, but instead I chose to hide inside a shell.
    Hiding away from the possibility, that time would tell.
    Death would come by, and that I could smell.
    Cornering my beloved mother, and swooping her from beneath.
    Setting one last sail.
    Never again, having the chance to tell her one last time.
    "Trust me, your going to get well."