when you go to that lane
where the houses are graves
their rooms only pain
shadows' dark waves

where winds pause morose
light is barred
closed doors and windows
keep sunshine debarred

where walls are deadened
reeking of moss
the way is a dead end
weighed with cross

you would meet a hollow face
covered in hood
who would ask *all these days
you did what good.

The year hath begun
Storms may rage
hearts may break
disasters bringeth pain

yet love to prevail
happiness be a song
Doors doth open
pain doth ease

tis a life lived once
a journey to share
a heart to beat
a hope to live

When I read
Someone's literature,
Prose, poetry,
No matter,
I enjoy the read
For the read,
Voice, style
Words, meter.
A combination
Of fact and fiction,
Shared understanding
Through emotion.
That's the art
Of literature:
When writer,
Not autobiographer,
Strikes the nail,
Strums the chord,
Touches
The subconscious
******.
One seldom
Reveals
Hard facts
Of one's life:
Writers give insight
Readers find right.

Trolls exist
If believed in,
Or if
Invited to invade
The mind.
Like leprechauns,
Look sideways,
They're gone.

in the pleasure of discovering
words rhymes rhythms
i'm a gluttonous poet.

day and night
bite of my growing appetite
makes me sink low

i don't notice
broken pieces
shattered peaces
around me

i breathe in writing
eat and drink
poetry

crazed obsessed stressed
my poetry
like any other debauchery
is an escape ride
someplace to hide

i'm a poet
subservient
to the pleasures of words rhymes rhythms.