The withering of a flower
is as natural as its blooming.
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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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2015
(328)
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October
(31)
- The Clouds are the Mountains Above Us
- Cold Tears, Warm Blood
- If there is no firethere are no ashes
- If you want a revolution light the fire in your he...
- The city sleeps restlessly as I drive through empt...
- False Apparition
- Black Mass in the White Chapel
- Small Town Morning
- How strong is a stone Water carves canyons in Eart...
- Don't Live Forever
- Moral Deadbeats
- Are you someone I used to be? Am I someone you us...
- Question for a Philosopher
- The withering of a flower is as natural as its bl...
- Elemental Kisses
- On Love
- The Question
- Midnight Choir
- I only feel good when you use me.
- Dripping with the heat of you.
- No one deserved to have you so why am I surprised ...
- Put your mouth on my mind to shut me up again.
- My One Bit of Advice For My Infant Niece to Rememb...
- Didactic tomes of intent
- All the lives I've led in my heart.
- Fresh cut grass It's scent invades my ...
- Let's make the same mistakes again To see if they ...
- Moving forward together into the light of a new l...
- Pagan Sun
- Let me press my lips against your hips
- before the sunrise waking to the sound of cries s...
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October
(31)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
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