You go to where Silence lives,
She is waiting, she can love you.
You go to where Silence lives,
She knows how long you've waited.
Midnight flowing through her windows,
No more waiting.
Silence, only this,
Silence, only us,
Silence, no more.
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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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▼
2012
(436)
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▼
October
(32)
- What Wing Biddlebaum Knew
- In No Sense.
- Past Life Marathon
- Peace/Piece
- Take this advice
- Collective Truth
- Broken Gauge In A Gas Crisis
- Messy Piles of Words Grasping for You
- No great story begins
- Love doesn't solve anything.
- wreckage
- Palette Run Together
- Just Stay
- Money In The Garden
- I AM NOT THE ONE YOU LOVE
- Tourist
- Who Are You Talking To?
- Letter
- transitions
- Divination
- Late Night Transport
- Politics is a cancer upon the body of Reason.
- Cellophane
- Remains
- Silence
- Alarmed and Dangerous
- photocopies
- Swan
- A series of random lines upon waking
- The tree cannot live without its roots.
- You should ask the mirror to stop talking, it's v...
- Warren Paice
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▼
October
(32)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
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