Author Archive

Festoon

whence they come
mine tender thoughts?
adrift a fragrant breeze
of heaven’s hand,
or, perchance a summer moon?
what pokes and prods
relentless stirs
arouse me turn a loon?
me thinks tis them
come sure of mindless pen
danced of parchment Swoon
~ ~ ~

Splotch

ink
spilled
spoiled
splintered
splattered
searching for a page
where nothing may be Writ
~ ~ ~

Aftermath

this morn the dawn lingers stale,
festered of travails born of eve last
enveloped in yesterday’s promises
still-born of a serrated Night
~ ~ ~

Heat

I am scorched
marred of your fire,
ever stained.
ascend with me,
lay sweltering midst mine ashes
slow water me of your Rain

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