The eyes of the fool are in the ends of the Earth.
Stood in a book I once read.
But how does the fare when a persons World
Ends at the foot of their bed? 

The Ceiling Marks the Heavens.
No glittering sparkling stars
The nightine illuminations
Headlights from passing cars 

As helpless as a baby
Her only feeling shame
Once more waiting to be cleaned
The only Stimulus pain. 

I as care find I’m bound .
In a World no quite as small
Truth my range was ten times more
When barely two feet tall 

I can walk in our garden
Can feel the wind and rain
Watch the birds and smell the flowers
But in earshot must remain 

All our days rill into one
Just wash and clean and pills
Order food and medication
Direct debit pays the bills. 

On summer days the bike ride by
That lovely throaty roar
My bike stands still and silent
Locked behind the carport door 

Our boats paint is cracked and peeling
A symbol to our fears
The day the keel tastes salt sea again
‘T will be on a sea of tears

On Isolation we live our lives
Deep love but the passion gone
A goodnight kiss bent oer the bed
Sleep to a mechaniscal drone 

So tell me how to think nice things
Paint pictures bright and gay
Sealed in our World of pain and fear
Of forty shades of grey 

Be all pink and fluffy
Always look for nice
In a World so bland and empty
What price a little Spice 

The Ostrich bows down to the ground.
Rose glasses on its head
I reach out for my ladies hand
Goodnight sweet. From my lonely camp bed. 

Alan F Herbert