POETRY

A Cemetery of Words

“Atop her desk, her quill mourns the spill of black ink…”

Drunk Confessions

I’m not entirely sure if it’s you I love
Or just the feeling of being in love.
Is it the taste of red wine
Or its mild woozy…

In the Stare

I never mind when a closed door whispers to me,
“no entry.”
It’s the open ones that often bother me;
Light streaking through their…

PROMPT/TANKA

One Step Forward

Walking into tomorrow