I'm Trying, So Help Me, Perhaps Help You

   In all the sickness, and through the madness. I find myself as fragile as aged colored glass. I cannot see, for I am blind to what is before me. I'm trying to find my voice, be it harsh as sliding on cold mix roads, of as gentle as the breeze that gathers the dandelion fluff into a swirl of white. I cannot find the middle ground, or perhaps this is it. A hilltop green with vistas far enough to touch, wanting it more, than ever before. I break into a new way of thinking.(In my situation a dangerous venture) New and bless with innocence and yet the vinegar taste almost enough to drive you away, but wanting to see if it changes with age into a fine wine. A new begrudging start, necessary to drive my heart and mind into a pool of new delusions and madness tasting pies. In my mind's eye warped with illness, I can gain a whimsical view into the box of newborn puppies, each with our name, and business, tagged around every neck. Each waiting to be picked, but never knowing for what reason.