1….
It catches me awake
tugs at my blanket
once manifest
now fleeting
a verse
long since past
begs remembrance
but memory
doesn’t wait
on frail men.
2…
A request came
through the rush
of traffic and grief,
to be logged into
a poet’s journal
for reasons
hence forgotten.
3…
These contour lines
scribbled
on my face and skin
are the fallout
of a Poet’s ink.
A heathen poet 