On an Easter Sunday reminiscing histories. Mulling over life’s mysteries recounting old losses reckoning unknown forces. A kindred soul adding warmth and glow. Dispelling the gloom of a sense of impending doom. Once again light and cheer fill the room.
A toast to our life’s passions and the stirring on an old happiness. The pain of loss lessens the past was a life lesson. Get up and do your own thing. A grand passion can never be lost It clings to our soul and holds fast. Grab the dark thoughts and toss it out. Allow the old passion to awaken and everything will once again be jocund.
It’s now sin sorry Sunday, you don’t look so swell, look in the mirror, look like hell, start thinking, I’m sick of living this way, I’m steadily getting older each and every day. I go out looking for a good
It slips in at night. Stealthy and low at first. A few flakes pick up speed as the first low howl can be heard. Wind howls against the house, branches scratching at the window trying to get in. Heavy wet
There’s a pile of wounded umbrellas overlapping in the derelict doorway, sure to be some kind of slumbering gorilla back there, grinding its gray knuckles into the tiles and broken glass. Hundreds of people walking by on market day, bands
Just not my day. When everyone else is making hay I sit at home and lay between threads with not much to say. I weave and weave colourful stories but stories they stay while I keep waiting for things to
God is waiting condensed within the church for the mosaic of belief to arrive. a mile away the minister is loosely holding the steering wheel of his aged sedan stunned by visions of dazzling supermarket aisles barking abundance and glittering