Evenings like these leave me cold.
The smell of burnt wood and almost summer sits on...
It’s been a while...
my eyes have gotten used to seeing...
* I am in no way downplaying those who have died...
These streets once filled...
We are locked in our lighthouses,
and the chasms of ocean...
(I)
Majestic; globalism's own pulsing heart...
This town is a poem
These roads are eloquent...
I feel I'm growing older
as my dark hair starts to grey...
Angel of the east,
whose storm billows in my chest...
Love is the only joke
in which I fell for...
All travel may carry its dangers
whether driving the Mid-East...
A mistake repeated is really a conscious decision
Willingness to neglect those who beg you to listen...
Empty
life regressing...