To A Poet, The Broken Flowers Bloom The Brightest
4 A.M. Is Not For The Happy
Who says I’m a bad poet when poetry is another home to me?
Is it all abstract? No impact Scribbled on a tattered page The words which want a face With a quill dipped in ink Driven by thoughts in sync The untold name
The voices in a forest
Death of a Poet
In the luxury of reveries and a heart, melting like chalk dust, the day grinned to an unfaithful dusk.