I collect stories of cold darkness

Continuously assured by those unknowing robins egg blue sky was optical illusion.

Not when replay swept me into your wanting, needful soul.

Your body hollow from desire – full of promise and escape. 


Tried and true. Tired –

A convenient truth

Neglectful of self doubt, fueled by the hands of time.

time: the natural massage of change

time: a gift of longing, regretful years.

Those truly knowing, know truly- All that jazz.

Love is a vengeful spirit.                             Collecting and creating                                   Stories.

Tales of concrete footed -Wandering poets, Writing on napkins -And notebooks.                  The backs of eyelids in sleep.

Silky delicate ink-Bold black lines.                        In robins egg blue skies.                                        Pastel, running – from the rain.

Your stories, penned-Under moonlight as you ran with fear
-                                                           Ran from repetition, regret, and historically unimaginable, non-existant world.

The one world the poet believes in.             Perhaps he should write fairytales instead.

I fell in love with your stories                                   I struggled to live -The beginning of my final chapter.

Feet free from concrete…

I hold unfinished stories

In my hands

Beautiful promise -Keeps me balanced               For now,                                                                   Their weight increases daily.

My feet grow heavy.