*** in the morning
Death in the afternoon
And it was dark

Milling about stacks
Of paperbacks and out of focus snapshots
Some of her in the shower

But pay heed
She's an iceberg
Warm her up on a bed of nails

Until she's a plaintive waterfall
And then tie her to the scaffolding
Of a clean well lighted place

What remains out of sight
Through omission
Through silence

Through childlike syntax
Shall float to the surface
In its own due time

If my life were a book, written in ink,
It would tell a tale brought back from the brink
With sentences well constructed with rhyme,
Of inkblots made by wasting precious time,
Of full-stops, colons, and commas galore,
Filled with desire to learn, and explore,
Aging sheets of regret pondering the past,
Some wondering how long the story will last.
Only Death takes away this humble pen
It's just a small matter of how and when-
This book may never be a bestseller
But it will be honest- a truth-teller
That's unfinished and revised endlessly,
Until it joins the pages of history.

a manuscript set forth
erors sprawld acros
every single page

t̾e̾a̾ stains spot it
where it lᵢₑs fₒᵣgₒttₑN
on your desk now

half finished here...

c h o p p y sentences
full of m̴i̴s̴t̴a̴k̴e̴s̴
marked up in RED

there are improvements
little notes jotted down
between the margins

waiting for action
as you steep a cup
to string it together