Most of us have very little
So we sell the only thing
We can possibly provide
In order to survive
The very little time
We have been given
In which to be alive
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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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