Poems

Promises flow in all directions, appointments are not kept; heavy snow fell through the long glowing night by morning it was all swept.

Few feelings leave more of a bitter taste than that of being used, squeezed dry of vitality and made a cog in some vast machine milking us dry and too blind us to our own misery, shoving in our mouths and minds a bone to chew on, intoxicated by the taste of blood from our own bleeding gums…

a verse in visuals

inhabit there with calm solitude and listen . . .

to grow so light of possessions, quiet as to know a whisper