New artsy dining tables,
blue vintage-ish sleeper sofa,
An apartment on the river,
A new star delivery,
My favorite parts of town,
And just so much more beautiful serenity twined serendipity.
Counting the dreams until settled.
I’m going everywhere it calls ❤
You coming? 🙂
Ooo oui ooo 🖤
I believe he holds all his favorite skylines in the recesses of his heart
A safe vibrant, little, large, brilliance given away by his laughter.
So, the clovers rise from beneath the cool earth.
I wait for the roses that grow from his sorrows, his doubts, his overthinking,
his words, his hold, his holy grins….him.
Visions of a comfortable hut with smoke billowed like clouds.
Of a boy in red trying to facet a new kind of door that takes a certain type of dedication,
A intimate intricacy to open.
Favorite gleams of memories,
Puzzle games of stone,
Quietude laced with dying fireflies,
Dreams interlocking with scenes imbibed among sweet treat treasures.
Then the gaze I cannot turn around while I watch with lullaby heart beats that he sings along with but doesn’t feel like he once could.
A Nightsky, all about Formica swirls paying the dues while all I do is remain loyal and lost in the evening dew strewing around the world like this is the place I’d rather have lived with before a botched suicide or two.
Timberlands Tim and his star stride: David Schermann
Creed of the forest fires and the people that set them:
The day away even if some think I don’t belong there.
Or if it even exists.
It still entertains me beyond most everything.
Aren’t you just the cutest little fear filled spook dressed in my favorite reds and porcelain milk for a softer, silky shell, a breath or two out of winter’s den. You feel free to keep haunting, nonetheless.
Conversations with stars when the grey winter clouds hide awhile ❤
My charred wings,
Always embarrassed me,
As though falling
Wasn’t the choice I’d always pick
It’s the decent,
That thrills me,
As though us falling to endings
Were some sort of tragedy.
And it’s how we were born to be.
So my earthen cherub with
Golden curls of forbidden longing
Skyline eyes of desirous mornings
It’s always been you.
Our days written,
Running amuck with
This yearning heathen,
As though the eons before
Before highway miles
With roaring scramblers careening
Meant as much as
The skyline of mortal intervening
Where our lips met,
Now there is nothing left but
Our temples of stars sublime
Conceleaing only our wild fires
Perched to anhilate everything on the horizon.
Kindling killer baby: Corvinerum
Destiny’s deconstruction sounds:
barflypoet & author of dark fiction
I want to be rich. Rich in love, rich in health, rich in laughter, rich in adventure and rich in knowledge. You?
Learn to Live
Alternate realities, psychopathic control grid, infinity, euthanasia, pragmatism, business and the esoteric - all in one.
Life Is Beautiful
It's all about you and me
We are talking about something we know nothing about.
embrace the impossible
"For your born writer, nothing is so healing as the realization that he has come upon the right word.” —Catherine Drinker Bowen
(...and some I have)