A poem a day for my troubles.
Brittle cottonwood,more so than he,fell on his head.And when it did,broke us instead. j
Yesterday, I needed to get this off my chest and so I typed away, and the mechanical clucking of the keys tapped a beat enticing enough for me to keep going until a conclusion came…
The great lonely is a place you rarely hear aboutIt is the emptiness between your heart and ribcageThe stale breath of an aging roomhumming about someone else’s griefjust to feel it on its lipsThe great lonely is a great plain for sage and horseswith no one round for milesA place that does not claim youthatContinue reading “Lonely Great (62818)”