on the first day of the month
we flipped all calendars in sight...

enough of you
and all of me...

Valens, you are esteemed worthy,
at the Via Flaminia you lay...

it's quite sad, so sad
when afterthoughts don't count...

That hamlet where mum's lineage dwells,
Ancestral ruins, where silence swells...

A poem is the funeral pyre bright,
Of pulsations once exhumed from the deep...

known quantity bereft of quality;
a name of little beyond its letters...

ever-present trolling social media
ever pressing searing avatar...

Farther onward, always skyward;
high above, hurtling ever hard...

Entering through resplendent gates,
to where countless dead seek final rest...

Too quick to gather
tumbleweed musings...

candle in the window
for the son of a widow...