thick mist around my heels, fog
crept up my body
The first Howl, distant
then my throat wide, opened

Corpses proliferate in soaring violence; heirloom of franchise and eminence— perish in erosion.

Timid denizens of derision, cynicism in roaring silence — optimism’s paling vapor—commodity of Indecision, our halcyon days forgotten.

Chosen token of audacity; the onyx maladroit feigns, prevaricating beneath the Sacred canopy.

Etudes of apathy; attrition unlamented; streams of guile— quixotic squall conversely merge — veiled conceit, eloquent arrow of equivocation.

The policy of attenuation.

Treason’s vine obscured beneath the blind surf of consent.

© 2014 & 2016 W. S. Warner

I can smell him on my sheets
      I can taste him in my dreams
             I can still feel every inch where he's touched me
I hear his laughter echoing in the walls
             I can still see him in all these pictures I saved for
           memories

But this bed is bare
My dream's a nightmare
       I can't hear
             His laughter
       He's not near
             Enough to touch
My eyes are blinded by tears
He's killed my senses,  
      I'm no longer aware

Everything around me,  slowly fading away
His face, his scent, his laughter,  his touch
Maybe I'll just pop a few pills and sleep away the day
At least he's in my nightmares, the pain of reality is too much

sometimes when i
contemplate the art
of grocery shopping

i yearn for much simpler
days

when butter was just butter
and no one knew the harm
that it could do..

those days when you did n't
worry about milk
simply because it was
delivered in clinking glass
bottles right to your door

when you knew the butcher
who cut up the cow
and you knew that the pork
sausages came from the pig.

and when your mum
sent you to get the fish
she sent you with a clean
pottery dish

those day of yore
when fifty cents would
buy a coke some chips
a sherbet bomb and more.

but those day are long gone
and i must move on

so again when i shop
tommorrow
i will stand in front of the
twenty brands of margerine
spreads and butter
and endevour not to mutter
about the fact
that butter is still, just butter.

Old Heart. Spiteful thing;
Always jumping in

Head first, never consulting
Brain.

What have you done? I have
Asked more than

Once,
On Brain's behalf.

Seems this time at least,
You're both

Working
Together.

When we move together
Through the dark streets of
Little Oslo,

Only children don't shy
Away. Black leather, band
Names,

Unretained laughter. If I
Saw us when I was eight,
I'd look up

To us too. I high-five a little
Boy as we pass. Only his mother
Doesn't laugh.

I don't care if your internet
Is slow out there.
I'm not spending the
Weekend at your place
To waste it on Facebook.*

She speaks my language.
Fluently.
|So much more than
Just ones and
Zeros.|

For Billy and Madison.


Brother more than
Friend

Everyday soldier
Hero/father

Nyack, NY
Windows down

Watching water
And its frame

From bed/
Seat

Appreciating all
Except the

Missing of so much
More than

Some*
Own

Flesh and
Blood

Chose peace over
Own victory

I know
The Hudson River

Knows
Too

In our humble
Eyes

All your
Battles

Are
Won

-

Rivers flow
Fathers sacrifice