A
month of...
Incumbent dark seeks and envelopes my soul
No voice of comfort no hand to hold...
I once was a feather
that clung to the leaf...
My fingers yearn for a time
when they penned...
Would you like to see what I see?
Deep in the meadow of a New York frosting...
My poems
like the moon...
I have watched people breaking, fall down and...
I've listened to and held heavy thought, cradled...
Withering into the quiet,
I no longer keep track of the nights...
you drape wings
with the petals of...
Just a touch of death
is what sometimes bring us back...
Where are the meter writers hiding at?
just hit me with a poem in iambic...
There are pieces of me
on the couch...