Dust particles rain like confetti
onto the covers of neglected books...
It's painful to be a lighthouse,
alone in the sea of raging waters...
I told you once that calendar
pages never marked new...
Words, one's defender
yet tends to blunder...
In a sun-scorched field
he stands...
She sat praying near
the outskirts of loneliness...
I wish I could blow kisses
onto anemic papered lines...
He tucked her explanations
under the arm...
Here, I am.
I sit wide-eyed and ready for the day...
It plays me like an easy tune.
It breaks me down in structures of chords...
As I sip the same cup of coffee I've had since...
I dream of the clouds departing soon...
So much is placed
in the written word...