They are coming, the words, the syllables. Slowly, five-seven-five. Here are a few of the latest:

Muse
How hard must I wish,
To conjure your words from air?
Eyes shut. Hands open.

Life Now
Hot flashes, fever
Spontaneous combustion.
Sweep up my ashes.

Knowing
They knew no better
Trapped as they were by their times.
How will we be judged?

Dreams
It occurs to me
This is just fantasy. Still.
Possibility.

Share this:

• Twitter
• Facebook

Like this:

Like Loading...