“In the echo of your passing there is a slight whisper, like the wind in the trees or the rustle of a silken hem.
It teases the edges of my brain, brushing me with the cold subtle fingertips of emotion until I shiver like an autumn tree.
Trespassing in to the sanctity of my silent oasis, pushing against the walls of my thoughts until my ears are ringing with the pressure.
I find no solace in solitude.
A poet is a slave to the pen and all the glories it could relinquish to the proper hand, but mine is a sword that pricks me with apathy and writes my tears in words of blood… I suppose you could call me a masochistic writer.
A trail of the fallen lay scattered behind me in broken notebooks, those unsung triumphs never fleshed in ink… Those meatless skeletons, bleached white with age. They mutter with unrest as I lay sleepless in the night, humming Patsy Cline into the careless shadows.
One day at a time… One day at a time…”