The world presents itself, framed and unreal
stained like a canvas in sandstone and steel...

The quiet sigh
that rushes from my parted lips...

Magic is nothing more
than, merely, a soul...

On the weekend
I go home...

Tears fall
not like a river...

We are stretching now, and separating, like taffy...
blooming petals of flowers...

We
have a...

Ashen soldiers stand watch
ranks and rows spiral past the living...

You
with your shadowy lashes...

It's December, and
the fog is stalking...

Prickly soft needles lend a pungent smell,
Giving lightly under feet that know the softness...

Even after eulogies -
praying hard...