Where do you take a story?
To the deep and dusty dungeons filled with rubble ridden cages?
Or to the telescope of fame that starts with talent, strength and stages?

Do you have a happy ending where the girl and boy get married?
Or do they drown into the sea where they're taken, swept and carried?

Is their world a crystal cave of wonders; stone and solitude?
Or do they fall upon the rocks, too sharp, too strong, too crude?

Are their masters death and dark and depression, silent and abused?
Or are they dreamy- light and creamy- hazy or confused?

Do they take the path less traveled, sure that they are wise?
Or is their confidence a plague that's hiding in disguise?

Does she run across a meadow with the daisies in her wake?
Or does she swig the pills down fast for a childhood mistake?

Will he make the deal of the devil
In a race for gold and soul?
Or does he spend his life in hell for sin and shovel coal?

Is she strange, and strong, and special,
Is he big and brave?
Is anger, lust, and vengeance,
The only thing they crave?

Where do you take a story?
Where does it meet its end?
Is it written in a poem?
Or pretend that it's your friend?

*To be continued...

My eyes probe the mist where it clings to to mountains.
The mountains who stand tall and strong
                                      Who grow darker as they rise Shadows.
They're pitted against the sharp vibrant sky
                                                    That surrounds them, vast, blue, mysterious.
I linger over the glassy river surface  
That reflects the cotton clouds
             And the dark, haunting mountains
             And their huge blue groundskeeper
The river winds and winds,
                            A great thriving knot,
                                                          Untanglable.
That sinks and weaves
And swims
Level with the earth
Equal in grandness
                                                         Acts as home to all
                              All who breath air
All who drink and sleep.
Those who gaze up at towers of green
When the sun is high and summer abroad
They chatter and gather and hunt
They roll in beds of fuzzy moss
                      Growing, growing,
To give life to others
To leave when it's time
                                                        I reach, I stretch
                         My fingers strain
To go there
To escape
So close, so close

                       My hands hit the glass.
The **** jumps the frame.

Sneakers left in blue shoe boxes
Milk is spilt on ruined floors
Sewing chair just ricks and rockes.
Paint is chipped off old, white doors.

Mice and murmuring reconcile
Sheets left huddled in room
Books and briefcase in a pile
Hatbox smells of old perfume.

A child's dollies left, and loveless
Glasses cracked and on the chair
Courtyard empty, dead and dove less
Frames are empty, cracked and bare.

Stairs are winding up, unending
Cotton seeps from cushion wounds
Old oak branches broke and bending
Cluttered forks and silver spoons.

Empty always, still and lonely
People come but never stay
Stay one night but one night only
Then they up and go away.