Kirjailija

"The Gun" It brushes by the temple, feels too cold. Now moving up, it rests within the thatch of gold.  The trigger grips eternity so tight while I my life could never catch. Within the circle of a round, a match for sorrow can be found.  I thirst for light but find I drift.  Why sell them in a batch when one will do to end this blasted night? I cannot see but have my dream in sight. Was I not shot from rifled barrel Chance into this world?  Does it not seem all right and good that I be shot back out again? Now I can take no more of this cruel fun, this weeping game and its transparent gun.

"Too Fast" I work and learn and earn the whole day through, repay the stalwart soul with Prizes for forsaken Pride so much that I no longer cried nor pleaded with a broken heart that life should not so like a dart be pulled to task and then let loose to fly too fast through death's dread noose which lies at man's last drop of life to cut it short with bitter knife. I simply want a day to rest.

"The Jubilee of Devotion" Unyielding as this home of mine may be, an orb that twists and buckles so, I see no light of grandeur, hope, or joy but through reflection's grace thrown off by love of you. My perfect moon, my Diana, lacks all those blemishes of face that I recall the sky's own moon to bear.  So sweetly shines my love I can, in yet a few short lines, but falter showing true her constancy, for she does wane so never.  "Gramercy!" exclaim I at devotions giv'n that I may hope return from me and light her eye in full effect of passion's faith.  How can the moon embrace the earth but be embraced by man?

The rising sun was casting a symphony of purples and crimson over the tiered walls of the stadium; the cheering of the crowd had reached the point it always did, mere background noise. Through it, he could hear every sound made by his opponent, every snort, every step, every drop of blood that hit the dust from it's plethora of minor wounds. It wandered, blinded by bloodlust no doubt, lurking around at the opposite end of the huge arena. The ring's sole other occupant stood stock still, his appearance made heroic by his ceremonial garb. A barbed mulletta spear was held in his right hand, loosely, barbed tip pointed down toward the orange-red

The room is dark, as per usual. I hate unnatural light. It's bad for the soul. I avoid it if I can. The soft glow from the computer screen, however, I see as a necessary evil. I have to write, though. If I don't write, the words will haunt me. Haunt me. I'm still sitting here, quite alone. The bed is a mess, a tangle of sheets, comforter, and pillow cases. Papers – short stories, novels, poems – cover the light brown carpet almost completely, occasionally punctuated by a shoe or pair of pants. And all of this is bathed in the soft white glow of the computer screen, the moon of my little kingdom here. Despite the glow, the room is still dark

"Pass Away from Death" I passed away from Death and vowed never again to trek his pithy path. The bleakness there of sun and stars, the gift of melancholy and the ignorance of fear inspired all mark the grim signposts of my conviction - leading me away from Death's carnivorous and morbid joy. My track shall wade among those forests where the cedar sings and willow laughs - my ways of Life through which I make my course, now fast upon the heels of love's perfection.  Yes, there will my time so pass, and I never my Life shall pass on by, I swear.

"Come for Me" I stare at him and see he knows my name, it is upon his lengthy list.  His lack of company discriminate - the same for all - has added me to his ill stack. He cannot smile, but yet I feel his smirk abounding - much more so in night than light, respite for now till his encroaching lurk makes day unsafe - leaves me no peace to write. Immortal words and great renown cannot at all the pressures timed of his dark hands to halt.  I sit and write but this my lot will not by loving craft stop falling sands. I name you Death, though you have named nothing as yet.  An aura, dread itself, you bear and hope from me my selfish

"The Greatest Fear" I fought with ever-constant will the disembarkation of stern reality upon the shores of fallacy self-built, the bed where slept by dreams of Truth.  As they could not continue slumbering, their death so small, so I could lie no more.  To king, to knave, and to myself was I now forced to show the flimsy fantasy that was our past hallucination.  Gone is the restful shelter.  Gone is the injustice paid as peace's price, the bag of silver for a kiss of death.  So much I fear of this cold time of righteous reckoning, for even I may be before all eyes and ears as wanting judged.