(2013)
How does a landed mariner ever tell a living soul about the exquisite rapture of the sultry siren’s song ? As it echoed through the mist,
Alone, in the same old crowd, trying to ignore this stifling pain. I am but
I saw him for the first time ever; the one who stole my soul away. He appeared in a dream. I had never seem him before, yet no doubt it was him.
Look out there, see them, boy ? They want yer juice. They’re dry, them circlin’ desert… All they want's yer juice, boy.
Late at night; another helter-skelter day, having flown off unexpectedly into alien domains of disarray. So many urgent moments
The old man, who thinks he’s dying, approached me with these words. I am sorry
I have suffered much while upon this earth, so aching to belong. To whom, or what, or why?
Weep for the fallen warriors. Weep for those souls considered collateral damage. Weep for the profiteers. Weep for the deserters.
It’s only you that I can trust to hear these words as true. Those I know seem blinded by some notion or another about me. You are my closest confidant
I stared at her like she was a painting, as if I had all day and night to drink in every curve and contour
I am seven years old. My brother is ten. The beating was brutal. My brother is recovering conscious… I believed he was dead.
Within this pilgrim’s soul exists a hungry beggar waif, who can never afford a moment of indifference or distraction. Alert to every aching nuance
Something whispers, certainly not nothing. A subtle impetus to choose to stir and rise
God has spoken. I have been listening, the message is clear. The psalm itself is silent, if the psalmist’s voice falls stil…
Clawing away. It’s dark here, chill and dank. Can’t stop now. Can’t stop ever.