I was once a man full of inspirationbut somehow all of that has fallen into degradation
Have we run out of stories to tell, I wonder.Could it be that every possible cliché has made the journey from pen to paper?We mix and match, we…
Ice lingers,as rust corrodes,woods stand naked,frozen inmatesof winter’s internment.Howling windssneak and sleet, death’s frosted fingers…
Inside my head is where the words lived.