Patches of darkness
linger upon an old country...

I've written four poems
so far...

She was eighty something
and I was barely eighteen...

I grow a silent thunder
that poet's release...

I suppose
this journey...

In dark of night I squint my eyes,
lonesome tears are recognized...

I pondered life
while shopping...

Shattered, glass shards
can be dipped in color...

Swallowing darkness
like a suppressed...

I know my place,
The standings stack up...

A memory-
Lake miola was buzzing...

Corridor's of light
flickered...