and rotting quickly,
each wrinkle on
her silvery black face
tells tales of years
stacked upon years,
tears piled on tears
joy and pain
toil and bitter rain Read the rest of this entry
Love is not a war film
like Apocalypse Now where the hero
goes through the depths of hell and
returns drenched in blood from murder;
he’s psychologically ruined. Read the rest of this entry
What sour sweetness fills the air?
What mixed flavors spur these thoughts?
What song moves us closer?
What forces wedge in between?
What stench still lingers. Read the rest of this entry