I keep your soulIn my ageing wallet,The unimportant stuff(Money, cards, coins)Stay loose in my pocket,A place as fickle as they.

Writing is life – it’s where my heart leads me each day, and how I understand the world we live in.

Who knew those detached wordscould conjure silent vows― flaming―fide et amor ― nothing lasts forever―

I typed regretinto a search engineand the familiar faceof Hemingway appeared.Were his wordspoured out for melike wine waitingfor lost hearts?

Fly away,” sang little lark to the crow,“There is no home for youAmong the broken promises and empty hearts. We drewthe life we never mourned, away with fading dark.Your wings are fashioned from the cold, mindless liesof feathers tarred with pitch!

If I could count the infinity of youI’d place each second within your soul,and lay my breath between the starsthat form your heart and whole.

Today words curve around my vision,Stumbling from my parched coreTo soak again those strands of silence.

What is the measure of lifeBut the distance travelledFrom womb to catacomb,Does the ever after take account?

We swim against―our own sweet moments― lappingthe hours in expanded pleasuresthat swagger away― our wilting sentience―pretending to be― existent―

Pixelated imagesDance across the carpet,Perhaps todayWill wish the world anew...