Shabby clothes just a well worn skin,
autumn sunset bathes the dead cornfield...

I'm still waiting, reaching out,
don't say you can never be mine...

Bellies smacking
rapid fire staccato...

It lurks just beneath the skin
burning it's way out from the inside...

It's the last poem of the year,
drifting lazily from my mind...

It was the dawn of another summer,
I sat on the porch...

Aquarium apartment
face against the window glass...

And I sit alone, writing
poems, stories, thoughts, & wanderings...

Wait,
what was that...

Ragged scarecrow bones
clacking in the midnight wind...

He had eyes of
bluish fog gray...

Crimson blood scratchings
poetry exorcism...