as her skin glistens in the moonlight.
This pendulum has frozen.
What manner of action was this?
Embracing this shared space.
Our lips lock as our consciousness forgets itself.
This grief grows in grey gardens.
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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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▼
2010
(584)
-
▼
March
(39)
- Lost In The Forest
- Circumference & Circumnavigation
- A litt
- Back To The Fork
- The Poet Tree
- Seasons Change But The Words Still Remain
- Finding Us?
- The Real World
- L to R
- Sarah Sera
- Four Lines For Naught
- Community
- 2 Pieces
- One
- Little Lamb
- 1/2 an attempt
- E.T.C....
- History Lessons
- Goodbye By Way Of Attrition
- Where.
- Is this the fear that drives me?
- And Then There Was None...
- A Reminder To Myself
- An Illusion
- Life
- Modern Love
- Fluid
- How It Falls
- Stray Lines Without A Home
- Little Snail
- Samsara
- Inconvenient At Any Time
- dead
- Shards Of Glass Glimmering In The Moonlight
- A Ball Turret Close To Home
- Sisyphus
- Caravan
- White Curtains
- Corner
-
▼
March
(39)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
2 comments:
THIS....is a beautiful poem!!! Please keep writing. :D
Thanks for the kind words. I think this one still needs work but your thoughts are appreciated. If anything else strikes your fancy feel free to leave a comment. Thanks.
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