the Written Gun

Nothing more colorful than, a gray flannel day.

Blistering winds with more shine than a lucky penny.

A spring Nor’easter.

A gathering of the personal army.

Crossing drawn lines in soiled, slush.

Gathering all visionary perseverance into a tight bun.

The loose ends of the earth our mine to own…

Under the written gun.

flannel 2flannel 1flannel 4

Your Touch has grown Cold

 

 

 

 

Dearest, here we are back…doing what we used to do.

The promise of calendar days just a prosthetic gesture.

A sub-conscience decision to blur the vision.

Darling, I know something about love.

It isn’t dressed in hazard red.

It isn’t laced in road closed puns.

Yes, dear, I too, know something about love.

There is a dusting on the road…

a Sunday drive to nowhere I am told.

Dearest, you are the predator to this unseasonably cold censorship.

But than again, you’ve always gave me the inclement slip.

your touch 1

Your Touch has grown Cold

Dearest, here we are back…doing what we used to do.

The promise of calendar days just a prosthetic gesture.

A sub-conscience decision to blur the vision.

Darling, I know something about love.

It isn’t dressed in hazard red.

It isn’t laced in road closed puns.

Yes, dear, I too, know something about love.

There is a dusting on the road…

a Sunday drive to nowhere I am told.

Dearest, you are the predator to this unseasonably cold censorship.

But then again, you’ve always gave me the inclement slip.

your touch 1

the Written Gun

Nothing more colorful than, a gray flannel day.

Blistering winds with more shine than a lucky penny.

A spring Nor’easter.

A gathering of the personal army.

Crossing drawn lines in soiled, slush.

Gathering all visionary perseverance into a tight bun.

The loose ends of the earth our mine to own…

Under the written gun.

flannel 2flannel 1flannel 4

Your Touch has grown Cold

 

 

 

 

Dearest, here we are back…doing what we used to do.

The promise of calendar days just a prosthetic gesture.

A sub-conscience decision to blur the vision.

Darling, I know something about love.

It isn’t dressed in hazard red.

It isn’t laced in road closed puns.

Yes, dear, I too, know something about love.

There is a dusting on the road…

a Sunday drive to nowhere I am told.

Dearest, you are the predator to this unseasonably cold censorship.

But than again, you’ve always gave me the inclement slip.

your touch 1