Meet me by the tree, the one from my youthDays spent climbing, swinging, longing, dreamingYellow Jackets and an occasional stingLong summer days that never seem
Category: Poetry & Prose
Lost In A Dream Of Ghosts
It’s in the grip of these days I lose track of things Once easily remembered It all blurs so suddenly Passing me by without notice
Everyone Gets the Bullet
Strange workings These days The inner Twisted to outer Painted with lies They no longer smile No need to hide True intentions For we are
Everything We Waste
in solitude we find that which brings a lost dialogue on the contemplation of what it means to be without the need for admiration or
Absurdity
This continuum of madness That plagues throughout Wringing hands and picked scabs Passed from seed to full bloom In the blink of an eye That
Bread and Circus
there’s a reckoning coming birthed by the hand of man that will shatter the brittle foundation on which we stand, foretold by false, celluloid prophets,
