Age
it is creeping slowly,
an imperceptible pace
will overtake us
when the hand is laid
on our shoulder.
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It's always getting late.
When I am not writing this is what I do.
"In the present we are always in memory." - Trish Keenan
It's always getting late.
Introduction
This blog is a virtual notebook of writing that I maintain as often as I can. Poems, stray lines, random observations, all co-exist here. Revisions occur as needed/deemed fit.
See/Hear
A Chronological Archive of Joy and Heartache most often referred to as LIFE
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▼
2009
(385)
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▼
June
(36)
- Origins and Obituaries.
- Asleep Before I Laid Down To Rest
- fra g men ts
- Distance and Emptiness
- No Sense
- Sol
- The Most Moving Poetry I Have Come Across
- A Day Of Death
- The Cold War Was a Failure
- Burn Out
- Flaying Flesh
- Shed Upon The Ground
- For Neda
- Words From A Dead Night
- The Vanity Of The Vain
- All The Mad Men
- Form?
- Chaf
- Vintage
- Remember Nothing
- unfinished
- Eraser
- The Aftermath Of You
- Forward Four Word Forward
- Memory
- Tale Of Brave Ulysses
- Without Measure
- Words Written On Scratch Pieces Of Paper
- make sense
- After A Morning Conversation
- Long Nights In Unfortunate Situations
- deuce
- Eight Workday Thoughts
- Respite
- rush job
- His Name Is Alive
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▼
June
(36)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
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