Be it childish scribbling
Crafted, stylized or mere black ink...
I mourned you in this city.
Walking circles over the bricks of Faneuil...
Do you stay up at night
thinking of our crusades...
my oars split the surface,
bequeathing brevity...
she listens as the night
keeps counting down her days...
Flow means this moment.
Now flows like a candle light...
my senses can sometimes betray me
some days my ears can hear what my eyes cannot see...
In that cafe I penned my poems
pinned a living butterfly of my heart...
The moon,
draped in a curtain of silk...
Green makes
the world...
For the nurses they are old lesions
but for the patients...
I don't know how many shots of vodka
I've had, definitely more than two, clear liquid...