the moon lights a bed of frost.
the wind a storyteller.

are the stars and the sea
still there
when the sky weeps white?

the moon lights a bed of frost.
the wind is a storyteller

and the griffons know the failure
of flesh, flesh and bones

and feeling the bones
in my crooked nose,
I understand sunrise
is not a guarantee.

the sky weeps white.

but the nightingale sometimes
sings to me of you in my dreams.


...(if the nightingale sings of me
then know I hear her too.)

There’s darkness outside
With hint of light appearing
It’s still early
Traffic slowly starts moving
Towards their destinations
Ever so slowly
The morning is just beginning
Empty roads in some places
As the full morning rush has not yet started
As 7am approaches,
A golden ball can be seen in the sky The sun is rising
It’s a glorious sight
Another morning has arrived
As the city starts to wake up once again

who knows which hour it starts,
which minute, rhyme or reason.
breaking of rules,        our hearts
open.                         split a season.

on spring,                 slight chance,
light            or prayers can change.
sons      move in a prouder stance,
yet others rage.

black bird sings   early
the same bird calls late.
sense that nearby
one year came straight.
spring slides. the
moon draws tides.

She said it's twenty seconds to last call

By the time I had considered that . . .

Skinny love always intimidated me

I always feared I was going to break a bone or something else

. . . but I never did .

I guess I kissed the girls and made them cry

now it is my turn

to turn the world .

I hear the loneliness knocking at the door

it's not Lanore or Annabell Lee  .

She turned to the hand of the night and told me ,
"God knows what is hiding in those weak and drunken hearts ."