The lady of sorrow  does not possess a name. For the sake of this poem, I will call her: Lady Sorrow.   There's another time in another place, where she sat deep between the slopes of a ravine.    It was overcast,  and so was the spirit in her eyes. Where...

It remains so hard to then hedge,when you live here on the edge—live on the cusp of life and death,separated by only a single breath. Peering down from this height,within a dark and endless night—a never-ending sea of black ink,here,...

I liked it and often used it, yet I gave it away. Then I realized I loved it.   I was moving the fourth time in six years so many damn possessions every object more work. Now there's not enough, Just the knee-deep clutter of Sadland.   The Lucite tray with the...

Dressed as black as lightless night,the stars exist only in your eyes.Penetrative, oval, emerald eyes which see right through me. Your dress, Victorian, with leather strapping which buckles around you. Signifying your social status. At your command, you gracefully slide a...