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Developing a pattern
Luminosity inspires

A quiet twinge

Only resonates with a soft
Pin *****
In it’s truest form

I can handle it

Beyond the realm
Of possibility
Perfection is

A impossible feat

An ~ Abstract idea
Takes shape in mind
Sometimes the bummers

Outweigh the most glorious highs

But when your
Heart beats steadily
You should probably buckle up

It might just be one heck of a ride

Approaching the straight and narrow
Eyes laser focused
It’s almost like

You’ve won the grand prize

There is a seamless
Welcoming Transition
With a natural flow

It reminds me I’m still breathing
Those are the
Kind of things you just can’t fake

When I don’t sense
An evil presence I’m all in
It’s very inviting to my soul

Certain things don’t
Just fall in your lap by chance
And you best hold on tight

Because you never know
What you’ve got
Until it’s gone

Pick up sticks like a game of chance

Process of elimination
Natural selection chose
Me a winning combination

The right nonpareil for once
Hope for a better tomorrow
And smile you just can’t hide from
Early evenings he was a hoot.
In his cups beers and butts
another cheap shot to shoot
searching for bar stool *****.

Hungover monster at 6 am
angry at the entire universe
God and Satan great amen
hair of the dog cures a curse.
stop! I said to
this clanging mind
go! I said to my
hedonist heart
neither of the
  two deserves
my body.
.[Voice like broken glass in a silk sock].

In the beginning, there was grit and stubble,
And morning’s mirror, cracked in gospel light.
He shaved with steel, not for the look—
But ‘cause the world don’t treat the soft ones right.

He wears a scent distilled from job rejections,
And legal threats scrawled red on unpaid bills.
Top notes: divorce. Mid notes: eviction.
Base note? Charcoal. Regret. And sleeping pills.

Hard-Life™—a fragrance forged in fights you lost,
In bar tabs paid with teeth and bleeding pride.
It lingers long, like silence after news,
Or knowing you were right—when no one died.

No citrus here. No dreams of Tuscan beaches.
No musk of gods, or mountain air, or snow.
Just smoke and bootblack, diesel, final warnings—
The scent of men too stubborn not to show.


.
"Love", doesn't make you down,
   If, "True", you've found.
the day has flared
and fallen

into fire
clouds climb

in silence
the trees whisper

something green
in their mystery

in places
wait the oranges

and reds of autumn
in places

wait the whites
and blues of winter

sometimes we must
look upon the things

we have no name for
To Thomas, Keeper of the Bones

You cradle the restless marrow of midnight musings— those skeletal whispers that rattle beneath the skin of sleep. Where others dream and forget, you scribble resurrection on the back of darkness.

Your pen is a lantern in the fog of sirens, a net cast deep into the kraken’s yawn. You fish for ghosts and feed the starving soul with lines that bleed and bloom.

Bravo again, you old conjurer— you’ve made the bones dance.

M.
For dear Thomas W Case conjurer of words, rattler of bones
and poetic supremo
Of "Writing Through Storms"
in the blindness of night darkness is a form of light falling into itself
there's so much to be seen but the eye has blue limits
I watch how I am pushed inside
by the centrifugal force of breathing
these women in me, known and unknown
they insist, whisper, shout, smile, dance, cry, they carres the echoes of shadows they want to tell me
what love is in the dreamed language of the blind
I say to them: no, you don't know
what love is
Yet
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