I was a magical weaver of dreams, a solid and steady friend
For hours and hours at a time, we talked as if time would never end.
You always valued my opinions, often we'd open up and pour out our hearts,
time was an endless millennium, always difficult when we had to part.
Then, slowly, this disease robbed me of my ability to communicate well.
Does that mean that deep within me, there are no dreams left to tell?
Why is it God, I ask in my heart, as someone so very ill
that most people so deeply fear this? Have they forgotten the magic I instilled?
Although Huntington's has taken my health, and maybe it's stolen some dreams
it is, oh, so very much worse. Dear Lord, it's taking my self esteem.
Because of this, I must ask "If I can't talk, am I really here?"
Please, come take my hand, there really isn't anything to fear.
And now, yes now more than ever, does my very soul cry out for you
to come sit by my side and speak of times, when we were the best of friends.
Converted to HTML by Renette Davis with permission from the author, Jean Miller.
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Last updated: Dec. 6, 2010