PINDA When the clouds are grey I think of your poems day by day the golden sun is shining you were the sparkling star! In the celestial sky the magic of your writing jumped off the pages

The street light on the corner faded to a flickering, blood-red wound, and when I woke up at dawn it stood there, black and solemn, like a burned-out match.

God is the label on an empty bottle of good wine. God is the source of the words in Tennyson's poems, the hand of MichaelAngelo when he painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel,

Where stress is eased from worried frowns and songbirds pluck a vibrant cord

oh dear!

I glided above the forest, with the sun playing hide and seek behind the clouds. The thin line of river was looking like a glistening serpent finding its way to the sea.

Thoughts.

back-lit by a ball of light that passes as the moon and lays me bare against the world but they’re all too drunk to see