Welcome, and thanks for stopping here to read selections of my original poetry and prose. Only half my art is here. As you browse my puppets, words if you will, think of them as empty hulls whose dance and form are only animated in Play through my vocal conveyance of their characters and via my direction of their tone. Lyric to the ears, its whole message soon appears, in thus the conjuring of ancient daemons deep within to combat the evil ones brought up infernal by the Craft of ages can be our stage tonight.

On this blog the theme is AWAKENING and how Revelation is not some story plural in a Book but supposed to be one of yours in this lifetime. Here in verse I share with you my inquiry to which has bonded Muse.
YOUR STORY IS THE STORY. Their horsie four so full of holes they named that way just to have a laugh. Revelation and Creation coincide, they never stopped. A daily occurrence in a Live Show me is true Prophesy which I assure you, smells nothing like a library book, and for which no innocents are ever killed. I hope you enjoy it, and I hope you copy it to heart.

Holiday Leave

Hiss
the icy mist
that falls to receding train.
Nightsound on ground
in bedded leaves seems rain
but is the elemental refrain.
Fleeting is always
Greetings' season cast,
all the colored lights that try
cannot make it last.

How New Year says start
but really, it's all now past.
These holidays, so fast.

This last dark night ours
hangs low like heavy washing
out to dry the hours
in defeating dampened air.
Ghastly gnarles
emerging there,
fogsplit beamed
the streetlights branches bare
wires, poles and masts.

Ships on seas of shadows past.

Pourpoise grey
and saviour salmon bright
the warring lights arc bright behind,
dueling swords that split the night
into childhood pieces of no-school mind.

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