We all become

stories

at the end

of the day

 

The true

and the false

the black

and the grey

 

The plot lines

will vary

the ends

in due course

 

As history

remembers

with joy

— and remorse

 

(Dreamsleep: February, 2025)

 

 

 

Whittling the point

paring it down

cutting the volume

honing the sound

 

Sharpening each line

words drop and fall

meaning to thunder

— lightning recalled

 

(Dreamsleep: February, 2025)

Blisters of

disillusion

fester

and boil

 

Vision

rubbed raw

in the darkness

embroiled

 

False

expectations

lie scattered

and burned

 

Ignoring

our history

with lessons

— unlearned

 

(Dreamsleep: February, 2025)

 

 

 

Abandoning

yesterday

haunts me

today

Interring

reminder

of what’s not

in play

 

Bypassing

my choosing

evading

my will

Each sight

unenvisioned

in blindness

— distilled 

 

(The New Room: February, 2025)

Embalming

your memory

the funeral

dragged on

Returning

the remnants

that pain

had prolonged

 

The pallbearers

stationed

each side

of the grave

A grieving

reminder

that time

— had enslaved

 

(Dreamsleep: February, 2025)

The gift

of a friend

A blessing

from God

 

An arm

that protects

A light

in the fog

 

The gift

of a friend

Enduring

and true

 

For life

everlasting

To live

— inside you

 

(To My Dear Friend, David Mackrell: February, 2025)

 

 

Often

in the space

of words unspoken

— truth most dearly hides

 

(The New Room: February, 2025)

Rows of forgiveness

fallow in winter

Waiting for summer

 their treasure installed

 

Leftover morsels

heated in darkness

Sating the hunger

  of those who are called

 

Seeds from the past

replenish the future

Buried salvation  

awaits in the ground

 

Fasting on yesterday

feasting tomorrow

Waiting for supper

— when dinner bells sound   

 

 

(The New Room: February, 2025)

 

 

Staring

into the essence

of what sunlight

often hides

 

Within

plain sight

the truth takes flight

— in nature’s great disguise

 

(The New Room: February, 2025)

Stuck out on

a highway

between reality

and truth

 

The status quo

of transience

allures as it

deludes

 

Looking for an

exit ramp

to slow

my troubles down

 

Each sign I see

in bold relief

misleads

to distant towns

 

Till finally

I hear it

though faint

within the wind

 

From distant North

it beckons forth

to welcome me

within

 

The truth

respects no congress

and tows the line

for none

 

It flies within

our hopes and dreams

to leave us

— zero sum

 

(The New Room: February, 2025)