john_silver

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TypeTitleAuthorRepliesLast updated
StorySaturday Sonnet: Meditation john_silver010 years 10 months ago
StoryThursday Sonnet: About Milkshakes john_silver110 years 10 months ago
StoryPandora john_silver010 years 10 months ago
StoryThursday Sonnet: Paris john_silver210 years 10 months ago
StorySpirituality john_silver010 years 10 months ago
StoryTuesday Sonnet: Huzzah! john_silver010 years 10 months ago
StorySaturday Sonnet: Little Proverb john_silver110 years 10 months ago
StoryTuesday Sonnet: Immortality john_silver010 years 10 months ago
StoryMonday Sonnet: Hope john_silver010 years 10 months ago
StorySunday Sonnet: To the girl who smiled john_silver210 years 10 months ago
StorySaturday Sonnet: To the Nephew john_silver110 years 10 months ago
StoryOrpheus john_silver010 years 10 months ago
StoryLibrary john_silver210 years 10 months ago
StoryTuesday Sonnet: I have mingled my bread with weeping john_silver110 years 10 months ago
StoryThursday Sonnet: To Mars john_silver010 years 10 months ago
StoryTrains john_silver010 years 10 months ago
StoryTuesday Sonnet: The Garland john_silver010 years 10 months ago
StoryMonday Sonnet: Lindt D'Or john_silver110 years 10 months ago
StoryRome john_silver010 years 10 months ago
StoryLooking at your old photo john_silver010 years 10 months ago
StorySunday Sonnet: Matrimony john_silver310 years 10 months ago
StoryThursday Sonnet: Flourish john_silver110 years 10 months ago
StoryMonday Sonnet: The Stream (II) john_silver010 years 10 months ago
StoryMonday Sonnet: A Tapestry of the Air john_silver010 years 10 months ago
StorySaturday Sonnet: Eternity john_silver010 years 10 months ago

My stories

X

Everything that falls falls in patterns amenable to an equal geometry of whose functions I know everything, or perhaps nothing. The object of descent...
1 likes

IX

Stone and cathedral it is raining on your thin bridge clouds a procession the sky a great funeral of light. Midbridge my hands open I drop into the...
Cherry

VIII

The artist's wrist does not shake or perhaps it shakes only on canvases past painting where the eye grows dim. I am no artist my wrists shake like a...

VII

Hold my hand the way you would a broken wing in its lines is a blueprint for writing and flying. I was volitant, I was free, so why these shackles...

VI

My love poems are paper boats of agony that voyage to a woman and back ferrying clotted chronicles of failure. I'm not here for chronicles but to...

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