Porcelain Angels by Dharmabum

Martha had a little place,
In the corner of the house,
Where she collected little angels,
Made of porcelain & glass,
Walt never thought much of them,
He'd just always walk on by,
Just something else to collect more dust,
Never really caught his eye,
That's pretty much the way it went
Or so he seemed to feel
Till Martha died a year ago,
And it all became too real.

Seems like things all fell in place,
A little bit too late,
Before their dreams were ever really shared,
And he told her that he loved her,
But he wished he'd said it more,
He never knew how much he really cared.

They were married in the forties,
Right after the war
A single rose & a borrowed suit,
Was all they could afford,
Then came banks & then the mortgages,
There were kids & there were bills,
At times it felt like a carnival,
With all the noise & thrills,
And at times she drove him crazy,
He never knew the reason why,
She could laugh with him one minute,
Then the tears would fill her eyes.

Some days there was laughter,
Some days there were tears,
Sometimes, the love was hard to find,
But they stood beside each other,
And they made it through the years,
Good or bad, they didn't seem to mind.

Now he wakes up every morning,
On the same side of the bed,
That he shared with her for forty years,
Where she used to lay her head,
And he sits down to his breakfast,
At a table set for two,
As he stares into his coffee cup,
Cause there's nothing else to do,
Now he takes a little time each day,
To do the simple little things,
As he picks up every angel,
And wipes the dust off of its wings.

Some days there's still laughter,
He can hear it in the walls,
Sometimes, he sees her when he sleeps,
But the days are getting shorter,
Leaves are falling from the trees,
And the memories, are all he's got to keep.

© R. Horvath 2000.