squander red rock
alone the lady
and darkness
to the tides
dislocate Apollo,
to pares of bones
wed to grief;
I shatter like
the blue moon
into fall’s hands
in the fingertips
of flowers that were not mine
& ghost planets
and shivers
reserved to the
death of the apple,
and baby’s dream.
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Written for this week’s Go Dog Go Prompt: into fall’s hands.
I am a Social Worker by day and an artist/writer by night. I use the written word in an attempt to make sense of the secret worlds and dysfunctional dynamics that lurk beneath the facades of our daily interactions. I am not sure how my writing styles are characterized, nor am I overly concerned about it. I am immensely enthusiastic about music and often connect better with songs than I do people. I also have an intense appreciation for quality wines and whiskies, frequently consuming them in excess. I like things that smell good and struggle to manage the symptoms of a life-long relationship with depression. So, why "grumpygorman"? Spend some time here and find out... View more posts
