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,

I remember youth and senses, the smell and touch. Fascinated by breathing, in and out. Sunday walks,

Soon as the sun, as life becomes d… I flow with a heart, all the worst… No more can I mourn, myself as I… It’s bright and it’s sad, but toda… like the years gone before, or the…

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

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

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

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

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!

Brush teeth, Planes overhead, People I’ll never meet, Some words just dance, your words dance.

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

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,

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