A mechanical predator cuts through darkness,
hovering loudly as it scans back and forth,
back and forth, it's eyes peering through streets
and alleys as it hunts.
It wants you to know of its presence, wants you
to hear, become fearful. It's eyes will see what
it wants, will find its prey through direct action
and pure chance.
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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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2013
(348)
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May
(24)
- After The Run
- A Slew of Lines
- Hello[ ]Goodbye
- First & Last
- In Her Room
- Affection
- I want you to feel beautiful.
- Boundless Arrow
- creating belief
- You're too pretty to feel insecure.
- We have grown older but we haven't aged.
- Selling The Past For Profit
- Welcome to Summer
- Losing Everything
- When Present and Memory Disagree
- Night Skies
- More Than Human
- Every collapsed Utopia.
- Boa
- She Is Not Your Wife
- Birth
- Always Lost
- Write until your fingers bleed and then keep going.
- Uncertainty
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▼
May
(24)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
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