by the garden gate
daffodils ready to bloom as she stands like sunshine by the garden gate on a random spring day ready to pull dried...
some illusion of love
robots never dream and robots don’t go to bed, and their well-engineered mechanical hearts won’t beat with the same blood or passion...
my epitaph
nestled among the pines overlooking puget sound a two room cabin waits for me and when my children are grown and moved...
into ashes
the past like dead leaves strewn haphazardly at your feet. gods and dreams lose their luster in the clarity of a question...
this clockwork
when she turns her head just slightly away exposing the subtle curve at the nape of her angled neck is it merely...
a singularity
without another point a point is just a point floating in empty space with no dimensions to bind it or help define...
under it all
rain. slashing thru space. slanting thru gray skies to splash on this window today. monotonous and rhythmic with a beat like hot...
fading (into memory)
at the end of this charade what words are left to say? and would it even matter should i come up with...