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

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

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,

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!

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

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…

She reminded me of women, I used to see as a child, at family gatherings. Tired, not quite steady,

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

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

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,

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

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