Dark Rooms

In the father’s bag of lackluster delights.

Photos, oh so still, of kindness and flowered sprites.

Hand picked pixels for a child’s plight.

Thus, a student, I became.

Chiseled out of a teachers harsh lessons.

Everything beyond the four hollowed doors were overcast by rain.

Infantile in thought, somehow, beauty remained.


In the age of living dangerously,

I aspired to hold the paper cut art…to his throat.

It was only within my black and white discoveries…

that I witnessed…intermittently, madness and hatred…

occasionally transcend.

Into a world of what is conceived…

and, what is best left for pretend.



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