Winter's chill beckons
Dead leaves like fallen bodies
Hairs stand on your neck
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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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▼
2016
(372)
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▼
October
(36)
- Imagined Reality
- Artist & Muse
- Pretenders to Power
- The Future is No Future at All
- Recover the Dream
- The Long Exile
- A Harvest of Dust
- RE: Death
- Waltz
- The Hour Grows Late
- Season of Harvest
- Morning Ghost
- The old gods cannot be said to be dead if they ha...
- Carved Into Rock
- Messenger of God
- On Tears
- Buyers & Sellers
- To Be
- On Hibernation
- Cursed Beast
- I wake and wonder How many more miracles Must I en...
- Does beauty even matter?
- Between Now and Eternity
- Mistaking Bananas for Cucumbers
- Disconnect
- Departure Point*
- Ignorance blinds us Dare we stare into the sun L...
- Province of No Empire
- Infinite Curves of a Bending Universe (Freewrite)
- fathomless dreams limited only by ambition and abi...
- Hammer & Master
- Reveal that which most longs to be seen from with...
- destination
- Her eyes and her dreams are the same thing.
- On Sin
- The Ocean Within Your Heart
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▼
October
(36)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
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