We were wonderful together,
However long that lasted.
And yet, all good memories reach
Their end
In the end.
Figuring out why
I stopped loving you
Takes so much out
Of me.
Love is a Word Unwhole
Love is not love
of a person so sweet;
of a thing of great value;
of stars frozen above;
of memories complete.
Love is not you.
What, then, is it?
The longest journey home,
and, after so long away,
a comfortable place to sit
and no farther to roam;
The perfect autumn day
Pennsylvania
I wonder often if you think of me too.
The day was hot and dry as paper,
lasting too long into the hours of night.
There were lights in the graveyard
as I passed by the other night,
lost and alone, traveling.
The Journalist’s Lament
Nothing compares to my pain;
No soul has felt this rage as I now feel.
Such long hours I put into you;
Refining, shining,
Perfecting beyond recognition
Of the stroke of amateur that I employed.
Afflicted Dreamer 