Two Thousand and Seventeen


 Starving street rats bicker o’er crumbs of bread,
In gutters flooded with a pestilence,
The promise of the morrow in the wind fled.

Listen as men of no consequence said,
As golden tongues lick in malevolence,
Starving street rats bicker o’er crumbs of bread.

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April Madness I

The Deanery

Your breath of stale tobacco,

And mine of a sour red wine,

My floor show of cheap Bordeaux,

And yours of old man’s decline.


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Awaiting Dawn

Awaiting night to begin,

Saying a moot Hail Mary,

Falling deeper into sin –

Escape the ordinary.

Fearing the volcanic skies,

The crescent moon swiftly wanes;

Mankind’s chorus slowly dies,

But the raven’s cry remains.

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