A feeling washes over me That familiar feeling Being here before Hundreds of lives within one Sitting, staring At a picture on a wall To infinitely unexist In this moment of existence Maybe it’s coincidence Maybe its bliss

Inhaling hot smoke Down the throat And into the lungs- Breathing it out In the words He won’t say-

Soak submerge In the dirt of yesterday run a cloth across my rigid landscape all that’s dead falls to lay fingertips trail over a track on repeat . . . goodbye . . . goodbye . . .   distorts and morphs an echoes’ retort . . . hello . . . hello . . .

A song’s rough draft Sits unfettered In his lap. My sheets spread And slip Scattering ~ To the sky To the heavens.

   heady    sunsets    golden rain    silhouettes    a scape    i will it    lest forget

           Second hand house plants                   and yellow light             dance inside the zorbing                    grey and white.            Isolation rolls imagination          in the home of jumping Joan.

Hot words pressed on an ivory page. By the Goldsmith? By the Wind. Wordy joy forgets Wastes. Disintegrates. The blackest stains remain Poisoned. Piercing. Throw sticks, throw stones Please... Hot words divide homes. On this page  Your ink remains. Ink, far thicker than blood. Our ink-tainted Blood.