Ghosts hang like pictures from the walls, traces of words echo these halls. Sometimes at night, I can hear the staircase creak, so I cover my head and, to myself, speak. I tell myself nothing is there, nothing is there, then I check for the man at the top of the stair.
Of course, he’s always there.
He always arrives just as I try to sleep, and awake, open eyes he keeps, and so too he keeps me, with a barrage of stories about people and events before my time.
His hand brushes mine as he leaves with the sun and he always returns when the day is done. I know not his name, but I know his tale, for he tells it every single night without fail. Oh, that man, he is never there, so why do I know he is at the top of the stair?
Back in the Summer of eighty five thank God I was still alive music was filling the streets as I chilled by the strip here’s the trip many girls were dressed with flames both were not ashamed the innocence of
Tears of Man You have the right to remain silent. Do you make the choice or remain violent? Do you evolve and become more civilized? Or do you choose to stay belligerent? You choose to be healthy, like you are
The bones are brittle as are the thoughts they crumble events of yesterdays that never happened things that happened not remembered today becomes another time faces and events mingle become a crazy quilt He sits and stares unaware of a
Who said that dawn doesn’t know him? Yes … Who has said that? He is secreting night when the sunset flows to poem end ; the flute, which surrendered stealthily to the day song, it runs away from the maze
The pressure in his head at times was unbearable like a vice clamped around his forehead having it twisted a 1/4 –turn at a time and when he finally thinks it can’t get anymore painful then bad timing comes around