flight.   imagine it white with feathers,

bird’s wings.



it is an old room and as i change the bed

i think of you.



i regret the dust and crooked floor with

fondness, then as i lay the clean sheet

not yet tucked, imagine you laying your

broken body.



think on this.



sbm.

She had a soul, one that made her feel free. She had a soul, one that made her feel like a beautiful rose flowering. She had a soul, that made her smile so bright. She had a soul, even through all the hatred and treachery. She had a soul, one that no matter how much the world tried to break her she still stood tall. She had a soul, a soul that would carry on for centuries, bouncing and changing from person to person. She had a soul, that only certain people with certain hearts get to feel. She had a soul, one that only a few people in a lifetime get to have. She had a soul, a soul that would be carried on to only ONE of her grandchildren because it is so rare to be able to see the beauty of a dark world before her. She had a soul, a gypsy soul I might add. It is rare and beautiful. It is dark and mysterious. It is wild and adventurous. It is kindhearted and colorful. It is................Me. I have a gypsy soul. I am a gypsy soul. One like no other that cannot be copied or duplicated. One that speaks and acts on freedom, beauty, truth, and love.

The blue skies and the white clouds,...carry the sun to it's forsaken place of rest. As it sleeps the moon kisses our cheeks in the night as we dance. Lost in such a moment like a trance. We're creatures of the night. Like a bat we take flight. Finding each other with a love so strong. Our sonic senses lead us here with an unbreakable bond. Forever in the dark skies we will fly, until the last breathe we take and say goodbye.

I said I love you in the field of honor
and she was like a colt, her name
like the moon caught in my throat,
she was water I held in my hands
like the canoe I worked through the river,
and she was a flash at two-thirty
in the morning of the suicidal knife,
and she was a fire of pine cones,
a butterfly that lit on the float of my pole,
and she was like the night herself.

it seem there is a gardener in that village,

that will not prune, will cut every shrub

the same.



shape.



if a walk takes you slowly round.



the village.



you may see every place

he works.



someone said you need

a day out to find some

inspiration.



for verse.



sbm.