your voice
is a murmured memory
crept into my dreams-
disconnected of body,
ethereal presence
are the remains
I carry of you.
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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
-
▼
2013
(348)
-
▼
February
(49)
- Unfinished Piece
- self
- The Crossing
- hauntings
- Pursuing the Thrush
- More Stray Lines
- Internal Mechanics
- Narcissa
- When Things Go Missing
- Feeling It
- Bare Essentials
- The Breakup
- Two Thoughts From The Drive Home
- to dream
- To Be
- post-
- Rules For An Interesting Journey
- Undo the sky.
- Retain
- Socrates In The Modern World
- recycled into nothing
- I AM NOW
- Technology is the umbilical noose that will kill...
- The View From The Hill
- Point the gun at the mirror.
- Ink-stained cheek
- Mid-Winter
- Waiting Their Turn
- Act in kindness with no expectations.
- My heart is still beating even without my consent.
- Inner Face Discussion
- needless noir
- Excuse The Mess
- thick air
- WIthout Price
- Son Of Thorns
- The Secret Language of Dogs
- Chromium Smile
- Cooing sighs and lullaby drones.
- Last Things
- Youth & Laughter
- I am Shadow & Fire.
- real eyes
- Fruition
- The Wait
- When is Now?
- Constants
- On Memory
- On Memory
-
▼
February
(49)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
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