''Tiswas a lovely lark in the park this mid day
Crap coffee  at the fountain cafe
Hippy busking the standards
Every now and then
Slipping in one of his own tunes
And that's the mark
Cos he wants to know soon
If the stuff he spews is worth a second listen
He trills off everyone who stops
To stop and listen
He thinks that this could be his mission
And he wasent bad.

I don’t remember
Falling out of love
But I remember hanging on
With my own sweaty hands
That were slowly losing grip
Begging you to just help me hold on
A little bit longer
And I remember the weight of your silence
Heavy, like a sorrow wrapped blanket
But most importantly,
I remember after
And the way the sun felt
Warming the chill
That your absence left
And the way that my tears
Fell like rain
Watering the forgotten garden
Of my soul

Do days swallow time?
Or does time swallow the days of our lives?
What memories get digested, while some are excreted?
The past starves to be remembered
after it's long forgotten.
The future hungers to begin,
heightened by the uncertainty.
The rarity of simply coincidence,
is like a blue orchard on the moon.

If I were a painter
I would capture your likeness
When sat under yellow light
Playing games at the table
Or bathed in the flickering glow
Of a campfire underneath the night’s sky
Your skin a playing field
For different shades of red
So I might remember
With perfect clarity
Your contour that I could see
Sitting opposite of you

The drama in my head comes and goes.

The Pull of Death
has many names:

Jim
Dad
Woody
Papa
Randy
Arkeem
Noni
Lexi
Tim