.Her adjectives were littlemore than colorful trinkets that splashdark light, even on Sunday mornings therewas no rest for the wicked. My earsrejected the multi-colored grotesque barrageof hateful verbiage crammed in therewith every other simple sentence that you couldprobably see long stains left behindlike a fatal battle scar. Her mother was just as evil--I'm surprised my wife even made it to puberty. I supposeshe wanted a carbon copy just in case of an emergency,because she practiced clenching old mens' esophagus' with herice cold eyes; much, much colder than any sea on the moon;Tranquility must have been banned from her cartographers budget.Her words were like old moon rocks she'd hurl at passers bywith her catapult like tongue and even swifter *******. Always aiming at the frontal cortex. Her harsh textured words would kickand claw their way down ravaged ear canals like three ******* catsin an Italian gondola slowly floating down the over saturated streets.It usually irked me beyond comprehension when she would bring outthe sickly sweetened, over ripe verbal ammunition to pry and beg mefor more cigarette money. I'd give her the money with my favorite feined grin which bought me sacred time and to watch her walk away..

Once you were a
walking tree. Drifting. No one
stops planting the seeds.

The pangs. Moons clap.
A renegade makes a temple to die.
Therewas no other space left.

I will not call you.
Your book has been soiled.
I cannot read my own writing.

I flew in that jet,
that crossed our path twice,
on the way to cornwall.
You brought me to the stratosphere,
a love that has no compare,
I didn't believe you,
when you said, your wife
left you for another man,
no way, could that be true,
therewas no better you,
had searched high, and low,
over and out,
there was no better other,
know for certain,
not a doubt.
You played angry with that,
your strong arm tactic,
always worked this cat,
your friend's wry expression,
give mirth to our session,
to souls entwined,
eternally thine,
I had to go,
you are my man,
God had another plan,
he wills, therefore I am

Once you were a
walking tree. Drifting. No one
stops planting the seeds.

The pangs. Moons clap.
A renegade makes a temple to die.
Therewas no other space left.

I will not call you.
Your book has been soiled.
I cannot read my own writing.