A fire snaps burning cold, memories burn and scratch. What I’ve lived, unseen by kings and queens who marched us all to death.
The fortunate few are as cursed by fortune or ill fate; the view hinged upon which side of the gate one stands in the mired stain.
What tears at our souls comes not from the outer dark, nor from flames below; but borne on black wings of desires from within Like this? chip in for a coffee via Ko-fi
I don't know why or how I started doing this but recently when my energy to work on the novella, novel, or story in progress wanes, I find writing verse fuels my desire to work again. Some days it's just a warm up exercise; other days I don't know what I feel like writing so … Continue reading Poetry as Creative Re-charge
Paths The trees do not betray, though the paths between them diverge, and the way is lost.