(Literally, Water of Life, the Gaelic name for Whiskey)
I’m staring at the featherdying in my hand.Staring and praying.
One morning, a melody humsa potential composition,still missing one or two chordsbefore it’s complete.
A whipping of wordsWhispered in earsQuickShifting sounds in timeRun straight…
The affection I assigned my father’s smoke rings are a deceit.His souvenir blue Parisian ashtray became…