Street corner painted in color,
Apollo’s light kisses the clouds.
Each step full of history,
Beginnings, ends, drunk lovers,
Keep hold.
Every morning all is born anew,
The streets are alive for you.
Roses
Roses are red, like the inside of your eyelids.
Fragments of dreams and memories swimming behind them.
Seeds planted with high hopes, Start to wither in winter.
Then are re-imagined in the spring.
Red, like the first drop of passion spilt. Like struggle, madness, – all but sadness.
Sadness only arrives in hues of the deepest blue, gives birth to perils in your head.
What a simple gift, that roses are red.
Every Little Flutter
Pastures rise,
spring to life.
A billion times,
in his wondrous eyes.
All I Know (Of You) Are Ghost Stories
Morbid whispers, past to present,
Decadent in mourning.
Efforts much too long misspent,
Haunted, rich with yearning.
Ask, but never postulate,
Arrive honest and plain.
More emptiness to consecrate,
A journey made in vain.
With distance alone the burden fades,
The heart finds itself aflutter.
The end at last, of all charades,
Not a word left to utter.
Though anguish may appear to rise within those vacant skies,
Can’t trust a single tear, if it falls from a demon’s eyes.
Sunset Over the Hills
The city grows still, under springtime sky
Shimmering in dusk’s golden light
Apollo weary, begins to rest
Birds fly the coop
Man does his best
In the Afternoon
Fade in,
wanderer in city clothes,
strangers you feel like you know,
rushing past on the sidewalk,
in waves of blue and grey.
sealed in ink 