words. music. randomness. life.
An old memory.
And for the golden-most…
I hate the sound of pitapatting pain…
For the pantomime sighs and joker-rouge smile…
Let others warn; let somebody else bleed by the thorn of it.
But, lovey, if you’re quick…
Murphy’s less fatalistic cousin.
All that is green must in time grow old.
We both build and burn.
Words make better windows than walls.
My legend was all doodles upon the door.
It took time, but I dug up that heart-choking chain.
That’s your fist in the fight…
The first time was strange as most first times go…
On Jovian Clouds
If ever there were a man…
All about us pirouette the perfect proofs
Perhaps I’m nothing more…
I’m jaded-shy enough to miss it.
Ask a man if, after being beaten down…
My heart has become gaunt of fate, my traipsing twisted.
Fine, break me to pieces.
We’ve all, at some well-remembered time in our lives, had a heart condition that came close to killing us…
The toil and over-turned earth of it, for but a dearth of believable dreams.
Through the muck and the mud and the mirage of pyrite…
Against all my heart has loved I hold a difference and a debt
she slapped him
Strange does fit the recluse, dresses up a bit the riddle of it.
I’m gonna move it a millionth-mile…
There’s right; there’s wrong.
Not all fights are with fists.
He slunk as he whispered it: “Don’t do this.”
But you’re another, and war I’ve no hope but not to wield.
“There is something about this picture,” she penned…
No legend came by it ignobly
It was a rickety rack and a rook at risk, all chess to be checkmated, I swear.
No man is an island, though he designs to be.
Not for the forethought of it
For the chance, his chin took it
New music: Kibo’s Dream
Give me the prick of suffering, then.
Like pines that chase the fawn.