A blind man sat with not a care
upon a beaten broken chair...

(On the writing of a poetry assignment entitled...
These black tinged tears pitter...

In a hazy forest of silver tinted fog
I came upon two figures stirring before me...

He said to me, so subtly
no more a whisper than a shout...

Sometimes I lay awake at night
with not a single sheep in sight...

Why twilight bares no scars of the
bleeding sky, I'd like to know...

Sickly sought a new facade, so
asked, of this to Inhibition...

Laughter's shadow tried to smile
as Sadness sat to cry...

The sun doth play its tricks
as it hides behind the clouds. So fast...

Emptiness is no void,
nor lacking, nor nothing...

A poem is like a window
whether clear or color paned...

For one more minute,
one second, of your embrace...