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Cowboy's Revenge The cowboy drew near to the town he held dear, Bum on saddle hand on his gun, The townsfolk all knew what he'd come for, To avenge the wrong he'd been done. He was only sixteen when they drove him out,

The Mill The tap of clogs on cobblestones, Echo through the misty morn, Ragged skirts rustle around stocking-less legs, Shuffling to work at day's dawn, Loom awaits, shuttles clatter out, Their hunger for deftness of hand,

Clocks do not serve but to adorn. Who needs them? Everybody has, at least, one:some in their left wrist, others in their right one or in their cell phones but coverall, we all have one in the deeply corner of our brains, where the conscience rests after killing.

She shimmered and dissolved into a cloud of fluorescent particles, her anger affecting her ability to control Substance

His eyes are open and milky in death, but there is still a beseeching quality as they are directed toward his outstretched hands. Blood has congealed at the back of his head, a trickle, frozen in time, down the side of his face. A strong handsome face, of a middle aged man. Dressed for the outdoors, strong boots, all weather clothing.

You and me, we both are born tight-rope walkers balancing the act of living precariously. We are trained to look upwards towards the blue sky and the airiness of being. One glance downwards could annihilate and

her voice was heard clear and unequivocal: - go to the hell...our relationshp is over.It's finish! Certain words...

The smiles to entice The poems were to woo I was wrapped in you.

Sitting up in a hospital bed, throbbing with pain, my brain felt a bit numb. Blood contined to trickle from my nose and my throat was so dry it felt like a bit of it scratched away each time I swallowed. I could see my eyelids through blurred eyes...they couldn't close. Not much to do in hospital....not much to do except think.