The Writer's Library.

The affliction of a rose is of its hue, A deep disgusting red like blood without breath. Oh how it makes a crimson wreck of an amorous nose, A rose. This its clandestine depth: A rose is a rose is a rose And both the adder beneath it. How now is the charming connotation so bequeathed it? Sickness falls once bit upon, It matters not the circumstance thereon. Imbibes of blood, That allergy does, And so leeches this lively dye. Sneeze away this viral pollen, Bleed no more and so it dies. But dogma decrees that so shall it be A pis aller to let decay this eros. Yet, Is there balm in Gilead? As the timelessly exalted syntagma goes? Do these poets sing certitude or chicanery, That there are blessings to be had? So they repeat duet and say, That roses can be sated, That blood set free might return to be ours forever. Did they glimpse the incompatibility of fact and fancy? That rooted roses can be boundless wellsprings, Never to overflow with blooming red recip...

I looked up at the sky this morning. I drive out just as the sun comes up, lighting up the buttery bottoms of clouds.  I was awed.  Awe is such a rare feeling, one that should be held onto and treasured. Awe and wonder shed years off the soul, my youthful sparkling eyes look up to the sky, breathless.  When I saw you for the first time,  you didn’t smile.  I could only be disappointed.  I was in awe as I got to see you lift your lips and laugh for the first time.  My awe and wonder as it shed years off of your soul, our youthful sparkling eyes look at each other, even to our last elderly breath. 

I use words to paint my pictures Each sentence a swish of the brush, blending without hesitation, Like a master, who expertly refines and forms his subject. Master at his art, yet he cannot express his heavenly visions that appear So bright, and detailed, vivid with colors not from the rainbow, that no mortal can describe. How then, am I to describe to you the complex swirl and storm of emotion that I feel? How can one paint a scene in colors that others cannot see? How can one describe their emotions when no such words exist?

Woods are the safe places, That keep the darkness hidden. Beneath the covers of gracious trees, Forever hovering and casting shadow. Cloistering the divine dark stillness, Sheltering the darkness from light's prying eyes.

A killer in London, Stalking his prey. A forest in Germany, Where fairies play. A chateau in France, Where houseguests waltz. Prisoners in Belgium Who lament their faults. Forever I am free, So long as I close my eyes I dream. An artist, A killer, A survivor, A romantic. Those who Dream Their life Away Experience Everything And Nothing. How I miss this world, This forsaken, Cursed, Blessed, Charmed, Euphoric, Wondrous, Wonderland.