I am not my Father.
The dying may begin, red to green and then to the righ. It’s the track with least noise of all like a soft punch muffled in the snow, not all…
The Warrior of Poetry: The Poetry archive
The Poetic Warrior Returns to his Poetry after Illness Welcome One, Welcome All
The dying may begin, red to green and then to the righ. It’s the track with least noise of all like a soft punch muffled in the snow, not all…
I thought grief was a quiet place, now it shouts and sings as spirits soar in acension to be released for eternity, and joy the tears you see are falling…
Well after an undulating path in the lifestream of nod and eighty three years in the game it was time to decide upon grim death, well I pondered and after…
Every second, every minute, every day from dawn til dusk and the time it takes to pray will you heal whilst in slumber. Did that dream make sense, I bet…
Silver knocker in grey haze through damp freezing fog, in and out of focus I go as the hall of initiation is prepared. I draw back have a cup of…