A Fine Suited Man With Terrible Inklings

A fine suited man with terrible inklings Hands on her shoulders; easy to confide Pouring drinks & erasing her sadness Falling by the wayside with time & tide Beauty is merely a natural configuration Each button gone, an uncontrollable urge His intentions told with a silent tongue Embraced & now they lovingly merge

It Was A One-Eyed Kind Of Morn

It was a one-eyed kind of morn With evening’s festivities going awry I scrawled out all I could remember Once a gentleman, turned drunken guy Slight images of a lovely form Olfactory sparks upon my brain Sketching the party’s guest list But no new faces could remain Racking my skull for a proper memory WritingContinue reading “It Was A One-Eyed Kind Of Morn”