She first escaped at twenty-three. A bicycle, a battered van, A life that she could taste, because She sampled it, at her own pace and where. She felt the wind upon her neck, And her own tongue within her mouth, The ache of stretching, working limbs That carried her the whither she would go. A … Continue reading "“The Thing in Itself”"
This place is home because it’s “us” Now we can be us, because we’re home © Irinamahova | Dreamstime.com – Home Photo
Lucy sat out in the sun In cold and clear September; She modeled for us her new life, I always will remember The pride she wore upon her face As she soaked in the rays; Not knowing pills and Crystal Head Would soon cut short her days. The pride of Lucy, young and full Of … Continue reading "The Pride of Lucy"
i wrestled in my bed with sweat and demons as madness tore into my febrile mind the burning from inside that brooks no pretense the loneliness that’s always there to find across a rope-bridge chasm you were staring amid a blaze of red and wild face but no amount of shouting broke the silence and … Continue reading ""
My attempt at the "My Two Sentences" style.
The barren winter calls across the lake, But what they hear are very diff’rent sounds; Each sees the world on their own chosen grounds: Results of choices that they daily make. For she sees death in winter’s every move: The cold becomes a penetrating freeze That brings her down, somewhere past mere unease To having … Continue reading "Barren Winter"
Warning: Something vaguely like adult content.
A fantasy she was...
She considers herself an average girl, Who’s led a sort of mundane life: This model-scientist-dancer-preacher Who I happen to call my wife — She was an entrepreneur for years; She’s a volunteer when she sees a need: She’s been a mother, a grandmother now, And there’s not enough hours for her to read All the … Continue reading "What She’s Like"