Writing

Many of us seem to look for things that will sideline us from the so call creation of things.

We are not her for the parties lavished on us.

It is in the corners of these rooms we get our solace.

Who says we have to travel the corners of the world to see our faces.

Faces for some our truths, 

For others Trees with branches withering down to its bones,

Skulls dancing to sweet sound of the wind,

What bends these trees in the wind?

Who said the moon was real?

What poetry you read that truly made sense?

There is only one truth that will make sense to all of us and it is in the embers of this form.

the form that has made papers burn.

Burning the soul of the inexistant man.

Giving him a voice that is for once true and formidable.