It takes balls, hell, it takes every inch, to keep spinning. To talk of flowers, or the death,

Brush teeth, Planes overhead, People I’ll never meet, Some words just dance, your words dance.

The doubt of spring, makes winter warm, when all is cold is now gone, The sparkle of night, and the seasons change,

Wake to the sun on fire, a wandering wisp of a dream, In it’s forgotten desire, a candle… as a sonnet sings sentiment as bri… What is a plum situation,

My father talked often, of what went wrong, who his father was, Who he is as a father, Long drawn out conversations,

We are like pebbles on a beach. Brought by the tide, yet not born from it. Sitting, and waiting,

I couldn’t think, of anything worse. From the outside, Looking in. Draining your soul away,

To sin enough, is to sin forever, shine dull nor pure, but fear!, fear the end. Does it end after night, or at the end of the day!

I remember youth and senses, the smell and touch. Fascinated by breathing, in and out. Sunday walks,

She reminded me of women, I used to see as a child, at family gatherings. Tired, not quite steady,

Oh dreaded day, bring light! Nothing less than the beauty that you are, The whispers and winds in mind, Shackled, deranged, slightly mad,

You have to, jump in with the sharks. They won’t eat you, unless you let them. You dodge and dive,

A drink. A sip. I sip you and you sink me. The empty bottle, is the saddest sight.