Writing

Human reed

In my hands

Time itself

I could put it down

But I can’t pick it up again

Minutes pass

Is it colder?

 

I can’t tell anymore

 

Clocks are just ticking things

Life makes them ring

Fingers withered

My voice still sings

The spark and the fuel

For the myriad things

It’s all just words

It’s all just words

Still now old aeolian harp

This one’s for you

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Writing

Sing Sign

It is a strange thing to see the board, as your train pulls into the station, lit up with the same place you departed not 50 minutes ago. A train to return to its origin, my home, a name glowing white like some false beacon echoing from the future. My destination, my transportation, in a mere 9 hours time. A taunt, a challenge, the futility of another day. Why not stay? Why not win early? Why not head home while the sun is still in the sky? (Somewhere, behind that grey winter haze). The afternoon rush beaten. Not to stand but seat-ed. No post work madness, gladness, dullness, soreness. To enjoy the passing scenery. To play with my dogs that will be there to greet me, if they were not asleep. Dreaming of a walk tomorrow. Before I go to work tomorrow. Before I catch a train tomorrow. And do it all again.

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Don’t believe everything you read – but this is true. A key component of saponification is a lie!

 

 

Soap maker: “Sell me lyes, sell me sweet little lyes.”

Writing

Not having a bar of it

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