The ghosts of winters past plague my mind with a blissful memory of the first coquettish look and the first breath of her omniscient essence
The failure of one’s duty by thine own hand is the blade that cuts the deepest for the blade was forged, whetted and honed by your hands To cut your very own flesh, and made with deadly accuracy
The spectre shall haunt you ’til your dying days with the faint hope of returning to that fateful New Year’s Eve meeting When it started with that beautiful, tentative look from behind bright green eyes
I'm merely a wanderer, seeking to set roots and call somewhere home, It's rather tiresome to be at the whims of the wind. So, for now at least, DC is home-base for me. Always hoped to one day be a published writer/poet, but I fear this art is a dying one. If I must be one of the last standard-bearers of it, then I would call myself lucky.
Walking in mental fog, you become a swaying tree. In mistiness one becomes lonely like a blackbird. Hollyhocks would wait, till the sun comes out. December rain brings the gift― of sleet on lips. ————————————– Walking in mental fog, you
The wheels find, the track on my body, why do I shiver & tremble? The night gives me the depth, a grim reminder of realism. The consortium of thorns, the splinters float in my eyes. The dignified seizure, takes hold
couples run naked then plunge into the vast sea laughter ensues… through the duration of the night a flock of birds with intense sounds In the distance the still silence then an old man appears gets into his boat and
Time well spent Years together Learning Growing As our time comes to an end I look back on past years I remember our happiest moments Before we move on Four years Of time And memories To be brought with me