birds on a wire.
shifting weight,
they eye me
with an unknown
intent. five days
till christmas
and I'm in shorts.
this is the new weather.
the moon still grins
the same every night,
but there is something
wrong in our core,
rustling under the mantle;
above it we begin to wonder:
what's it all for?
Well, it looks like I've majorly lapsed on the poem-a-day habit. Not to worry. I'm taking a short break to finish the Balkey story line....
“What,” the young, scarred and scabbed Scib said, “did Mr. Pin calm him – Bixson-” And Balkey closed the gap as soon as the word left the...
Tell him Coral has finally gone sour and the Pin is as crooked as we all thought,” fryed Balkey and eyed the straight and tall, the...