Hardened

I am stormy weather roughened,
dashed, left beaten on the fjord,
unsurmounted, rendered jagged by the peak
to wit, stripped of mine tattered garb.
though lost not of will and able
yet wonder when the caldron Chills

Insanity ?

here I am, arrived at this station

for having come this way before

and for feeling no benefit, nor lack of it,

I lean to trod them once again

them footfalls laid before, and

this time deliberate more certain

each the one most freshly taken.

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
~ ~ ~

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