Things written long ago and maybe more to come.
Oh colorful ineptitude, what is your plea
The phone it rings and it isn’t you.
The tap is running.
I’m floating under without a knife
I had sad news to tell you, of a road less traveled by.
There’s a pebble in my shoe and it’s my tongue
It’s over.
I write nothing because I feel nothing
Times change and the sands in the hour glass fall.
We are all but shadows in the night.