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Cherry

Aging Gracefully

A gift and a curse we all possess.

In default of

would be uncle who make you fall-you the tyranny

On this your birthday

I have watered a well spring Till its continents floated by And still I’ve had springs run dry Leaving me nothing more to say I have watered a well spring And poured a little salt

Ashtray blues

I have those ashtray blues Not wanting to walk Another day in these shoes Singing these butt end songs It’s never easy enough for us But still they contain Some essence of what
Cherry

Spent

This was a shorter piece than I had planned. But autobiographical writing has never been my strong suit. So I figured I needed to get my feet wet before taking the big plunge.

Dark Horses

Dark horse walks into the room where there's no room to swing a cat Needs must when the devil drives, I put down that glass and placed a bet a skeptical dicer with eyes half closed
Cherry

you drew on your cigarettes

You'd stand drawing on a cigarette with such languor and contempt. A scream of dissent, to the requirements of loss, you know, that debt that we must all at times settle.

Fake / Lineage

I wouldn't say I was a fake exactly, but I don't have a catalogue or great literary lineage deposited in my depleting grey matter.

Born under the brightest star

Savior I see through my minds eye, A tale of greatness awaits Your name for eons etched in stone A legacy of rule on the highest throne.

Captive / Contradiction

The place approaches and almost everything that I am ceases to be The groundedness of me in the earth gives itself up and the familiar madness creeps in The differences are subtle

April

Effortlessly spreading butter from the dish without mulling over which knife to use the joy that there’ll be no doleful waiting time for the stuff to melt sufficiently on the toast

A Lost

where are you? wandering the streets, looking for a home looking for someone who understands, looking for someone who loves. so many days have you spent in the streets, living under bridges,

Here

It’s here: our pulses slowly start to quicken; While dancing with bright heat fuelled eyes, They Linger long- then slowly start to glisten, As our warming hands- reach out for soft
Cherry

The Man with the Earring

There was someone, some time, somewhere.

The lady in blue

For the yesterday lady in

POEM: Certainty.

When love settles in the heart, and warms it.

Death of Connor Sanderson: Chap 1:Part 6.

London,1910: Abraham Stoker's 'Dracula' had made barely a ripple in the pool of human consciousness. Connor Sanderson is a vampire. He just does not know it yet...this morning he woke up dead.

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