The Tree’s last leaf falls
Does it reflect on Spring’s blooms;
Dreaming with eyes closed

Salt-wept and tide-lost,
foam-laced marionette drowns
once, the sea held hands.

"A yummy granola of uneven stanzas, metaphors and similes, meditations, and confessions."

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this is I’m told
the how of how
I script,
I like granola though not
necessarily my premieur choix,
unless I’m breakfast buffet’ing
in Switzerland

and the all white mountains urge me
to climb aboard

I do not quatrain or cinqtrain,
my plan of attack is
****** and parry, defeat the
white enemy of empty,
with love my soul delivers
that which is rapidly transiting,
decomposing in my lobes,
awaiting perhaps reassembly and
reanimating in a new combination

employ the employees of writing
with liberty for all and
allegiance to none,
and the wild child within calls the shot
and asks only one question:
what do I deserve,
more importantly,
what do I know and owe you?