a split lip awakens and remembers bare knuckle deep into the wastewater of past haunts evoking that fond, sick memory of the fanciful martyr, someone
What They Don’t See
They asked me why I don’t often write of the vastness of stars tides of the sea a flower’s bloom bathed in a kiss of
False Beasts
A want for destruction Held by A lack of faith In the oneself Wrapped in your Pious hope Choking on Identity indignation And the suffering
An Unfinished Letter to M. Ennenbach – Dictated
please, indulge me for a moment if you’ve a few to spare as I seize this opportunity at a live, captive audience of one for
Merry Christmas!
Too often, I miss much of the beauty that is right there in front of me. Thankfully, I didn’t miss this . . .
This Time
it’s been a long time coming the divisive fracture held much longer than expected through the wind and the rain ever widening, splintering the creaks
The Stories In Between 