Our tormented souls Twisted and distorted in so many ways As if writhing over hot coals Will we ever be so until the end of our
Tag: poem
it’s not good in the hood
it’s not good in the hood where we stood I’m in your face about my race do ya know your place? don’t ask
three chimneys
three chimneys always burning the wheels constantly grinding and turning three speechless sentinels looking down on the barren land as the ghostly wind scatters the
words for the night
The night has a different texture than the day. During autumn and winter, the nights are longer, sometimes even oppressively long. Walking while immersed in
a poem
The bombs began to fall There were flashes beyond the walls A child playing with a ball ran down the long hall Then we heard
the elusive presence
the elusive presence It seems one can hear her sweet, soft voice whispering in the sighing wind through the leaves of the trees late at
