The doubt of spring, makes winter warm, when all is cold is now gone, The sparkle of night, and the seasons change,

My father talked often, of what went wrong, who his father was, Who he is as a father, Long drawn out conversations,

Etched, in the valleys of the moon, staring from or to. Blazing the night, The autumn heat returns,

Wake to the sun on fire, a wandering wisp of a dream, In it’s forgotten desire, a candle… as a sonnet sings sentiment as bri… What is a plum situation,

I couldn’t think, of anything worse. From the outside, Looking in. Draining your soul away,

It takes balls, hell, it takes every inch, to keep spinning. To talk of flowers, or the death,

We are like pebbles on a beach. Brought by the tide, yet not born from it. Sitting, and waiting,

To sin enough, is to sin forever, shine dull nor pure, but fear!, fear the end. Does it end after night, or at the end of the day!

There’s not enough time, Not for seeing the world, no no But feeling alive, To hold your friend when they weep… For being in a hole,

Oh dreaded day, bring light! Nothing less than the beauty that you are, The whispers and winds in mind, Shackled, deranged, slightly mad,

A drink. A sip. I sip you and you sink me. The empty bottle, is the saddest sight.

The port city and it’s secrets, The Sicilians drapes hung in the… The ghosts beyond the limestone wa… The sad holy brush of James Walsh… The sanctity of the unknown,