The ghosts of those long deposed
A-list Hollywood Actors
Are rehearsing their parts in the graveyard
Of the not so happily ever after

They come out at night in time to recite
Lines from their last endeavor
Not sure if they know, they died long ago
Or even would care to hear that answer

Wondering how they're not drawing the crowds
As in the day of the Silver Screen
There's a whole host of reasons in this ghostly season
As to why they are no longer seen

If they made their way through the graves in the day
They'd see all their fans paying homage
Getting their pictures made beside the graves with their names
Able to share in that special moment

But alas the ghosts of those long deposed
A-list Hollywood Actors
Will continue to rehearse their parts in the graveyard
Of the not so happily ever after

It's a clockwork — like the dances of phantoms in the hallways, in the glow of lights through the window at night. I stared like a burglar from afar, It's the fear and anger, that's keeping me restless — a reminder that I should sleep with one eye open, meager, furiously shame.

I understand how stubborn they are rewriting the history, as I try to recollect, catching trails like they were footsteps. Love is all they worship from the beginning of time, thus it crumbles them to dust.

Are they second - hand embarrassed? If I couldn't see the ghosts and shadows lingering everywhere, yet here I am nestled to all that fairy tale, for a momentary, and still plotting the sweetest lullaby. Did they haunt you too? as if it were a chunk to the armour or it counterfeits them?

People are enamored at the calm, tranquility of the sea as they said, as it depicts only how gentle it is, cascading through shores. We have hated its chaotic depths and crashing waves as the dark skies looms above, those waves were the beat of my heart in a gold locket— it must love the catastrophe to be kind.

it comes as no suprise.

often ill they die.



it is the way.

it is not sad.



we are sensed

with  loss.



that includes you.

no more.

In the early morning fuzz, a smoky inhale of life
the lamppost is lit and the trees are just waking up
Five Forty Two Am: the eyes of the sky are grayly
I hold my stave high as I begin my very first poem  

Bushes and creeks containing tiny quakes of light
piercing through a silent heaven, I feel alright
Sleeping in the room next door he is unaware
of the awakened altered state that claims me

Down the path of memories I go alone and safe
standing behind a closed window, vouchsafe !
Smoke blankets the city on this Friday morning
I can't touch the fire, I am only its town crier

as I write about the residue of the wildfires,  
                I can see the peeling back of its slight
                                 and know instinctively,
                                          It is daylight....

Waiting for something that never comes
                    In my solitude
                           Sigh...

Bowing to the ***** god,
I lived like a pleasure
seeking missile, propelled
toward all things ME.
Empty as a carcass.
Hungry as a desert.
I didn't see the
strawberry moon of
summer.
It was me and the
Ferryman, until the
river ran dry.
Eternal winter for
the soul.

And then

A revolution in my
being.
A total shift in
my values and
perception.
The Creator purchased
my dilapidated heart.
He moved in and lives
there still.

My home, on the outside
might look like
a shack to some, but inside
it's a mansion with the
most sublime bread you
ever tasted.
Fruit trees in every room.