poetry is terrible
awful
often barely worth its own ink
and now we use computers
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 10:08 PM UTC
O hollow souls who now gather here in rows,
Now standing in its presence to rob a bit of essence
Before the fire of the day you pray,
Turn away, kneel here
Where the Angel decays
Just ash remains
Where fire cleansed
The winds sweep clean the scene and silence keeps the peace.
Sunfire marks the shadow grave.
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 7:33 AM UTC
the holes in the door,
the ones shaped like blades,
came with the place,
I just never fixed them.
the suitcase full of clothes
in the other bedroom
belongs to a man
i have not seen in years.
and that frame on the wall
with nothing inside
shaped like an antique mirror,
the kind of mirror so old
all those reflected have died?
I put that there.
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
over time constructions fall
returning to the earthen maw
everlasting marks in time
are fruitless expeditions all
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 4:22 AM UTC