A Journal of the Arts
Fragile lives led with no direction;
Crushed by time from the moment of conception.
‘Lest we forget the destination,
Or learn to draw each breath with deliberation,
We will never learn what it means to be alive.
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For a Friend
Sweet little brown eyed thing.
and beautifully bashful.
Not the kind of woman to want,
the kind of woman
A bad man might need.
In those big browns,
A reflection. Of all he could do.
Of all life could be.
So far from perfect,
but the kind of grin
which makes a man quit seeking
Such a standard.
No longer a matter of arrogance,
Rather one of ambition.
Post her up on Observatory.
Pay her to stay home,
So I can sit and watch her read.