Every time I sit down to write
he lights a candle - saying that...

We've almost all
outgrown...

& Whispers leech out of tight smiling mouths
as if it is a sin to be honest in this line of...

There's too much aching and breaking in this world
too many of us are made of porcelain and glass...

Someone's packing their bags
which one of us will it be...

I found your lilies
and your roses...

There are things that cannot be
put into poems or words of beauty...

Somehow I seem to only find myself
living here in the Aprils of my youth...

Daisies surround the bluebells
as green swallows the whole field...

I leave words for you
structured in verse and rhythm...

What it means to bloom -
something akin to adoration...

This loneliness runs rampant
in and out of my soul, sending...