What is left of me...

Deeply personal,

A diary of notes.

Archived and etched,

Some friendly anecdotes.

A shelf full of books,

Count of a few hundred.

And most of them,

Regrettably unread.

From when I was young,

Some artistic scrawls.

When crayons were paint,

And canvas the walls.

Also a lot of paper,

About the wealth I've amassed.

And some scraps, that mention,

The degrees I've passed.

A picture of two, the proof,

That I’m a married man.

And to be passed further as heirloom,

A rusty old table fan.

Tonics and balms and bottled drugs,

The markers of my age.

That’s what is left of me,

My life, stage by stage.

It saddens me of course, for,

That's all that is left of me…

Meager, momentous, and truthfully,

That’s all that is left of me...

And Now…

Over to the right side of the room!

Sunny side up!

I've seen it a million times,

Stark and dark, flared and mellow...

I've seen it in every way,

Bright or dull, red, orange and yellow...

I've been through its ups and downs,

Borne its wrath, sorrow or glee...

And whether it is warm, sprightly or aglow,

I've always seen it as a part of me...

To it my faith, my religion, my love is bound.

It seems what revolves round it, is this world of mine...

It is its center, its tither, its soul, its shrine...

And though it is beyond my reach and greatly unbound,

It still is close, for it, to me, is divine...

And to it, myself, I do entwine...

Call it a ball of gas,

Or the life giver,

The blanket of warmth,

Or my lucifer.

It is young,

It is bright,

It sets,

Yet it brings me light...

I say it is my whim,

Others call it a fact...

I worship it in silences,

And pull a non-believer's act...

They call it an emotion,

I call it my one...

Riddle me a thing,

Is it my love, or,

Is it the sun?