Leave

Inherent loneliness
Sets the tone.
I stand watch each night
Over words, alone.
Every dream I’ve ever
Had has flown.
I await only the wind
To take me home.

Clockwise

We are seven wheels turning,
Plus a few more seldom mentioned.
From the macro to the micro,
Clockwise is key.
Until the spinning stops
And all that’s sentient drops.

Drifts

The cloud creates itself
Of its own self-sustenance, 
but still down unknown pathways
it drifts only to find other skies.

Now blotting out the sun
It grasps and consumes.
The same old ritual of building
And gliding.










While someone below remarked
How remarkable it was,
Etched in red and gray,
His ability to feed his own demise.