There are such long-forgotten tracks,hidden here within these cracks,between each and every line...a most nefarious sort of design. While the poetry seeks to beguile,such venom behind every smile—meant, then, to be kissedafter any warning is missed. Or so it always does...

With every new coin I toss,or every bridge I dare cross,I do love to step over the line,upending every poetic design. As I again try to make my way,in the quest to somehow unsaythese stanzas within the night,left here forever...

For years, I didn't speak to my father, that us, until today. He had news for me. Today, I drove in trepidation to his house, my childhood home, to find answers. Up the old driveway, seeing changes, more vegetation and tall grass, nothing trimmed nor...