One day,

but probably not,

they’ll be able to see,

a wonderful beauty,

in a lovely way,

where nothing matters,

but lilac scented breezes,

that scatter drying leaves,

while days never seem,

drawing along long,

as living seems real,

never ceasing to be,

a wanting for an ending,

that never comes.


After The Show

As the final curtain draws,

there will be no last call,

no memberable soliloquy,

no pause after the applause,

when it’s done and the lights come on,

seats will be emptied and they will all move along,

hopefully they will recall the final song.


In Reality

I am remiss,

that I can’t,

fucking dismiss,

though I wish,

life could be,

more smoothly,

but that’s the deal,

if we’re breathing,

and not yet dead,

what else really,

could be said,

of reality,

of course,

I’d love to,

close my eyes,

without a thought,

but nightmares’,


like they always do,

when reality,

simply won’t do.

The stranded ones


This is a short story,

it was a 200-350 word set,

horror genre,

based on a photo.

It’s after the end of this,

horror bites challenge,

I had posted it to office mango.



the crew member’s,

are waking,

I heard,

my assistant say.

I looked at the monitor,

and turned on the AC.

Taking my mask off,

my assistant,

followed suit.

“When do you think,

they’ll start asking,


and demanding answers Sir?”

“Very soon,

the anesthetic,

doesn’t have,

any lasting effects.”

“It was derived,

with compassion,

in mind.”

For a moment,

we simply stared,

at each other.

After all,

that might just be,

their last compassion.

As we flew,

along the skyline,

it was quiet,

for a while.

We watched,

the passengers,

come to life,

shifting and waking,

rubbing their eyes,

and looking,



they became,


Call buzzers,


I looked at,

the stewardess’,


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Dead relatives and moldy glasses


Fancy they were,
with their,
silky red velvet walls,
lined with,
gild golden trim tin,
along top,
near ceiling walls,
matching the lines,
thru winding halls,
leading round,
to around,
theater’s of attraction,
one show,
to absurd’s next,
an old lady,
looks at me,
she’s not,
what she appears,
to obviously be,
a compalation,
of what meets,
nasty and sweet,
I tell her lies,
I always know,
my abiding demise,
she graciously accepts,
I wander off,
seeing everyone all,
represented as,
blond short haircut’s,
blue eyed wide,
telling secret’s,
stories and more,
some of which,
forbidden lore,
I smile,
I nod,
patiently am I,
thru a rotting,
in their pooling eyes,
I wander away,
in search of a drink,
bottles everywhere,
I search for a glass,
all moldy,
in cupboards all,
with no sink in sight,
I awake,
with no drink,
sober enough,
to remember,

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Of Ebb’s, Tides, and Time


Of ebb’s and tides,
that which time rides,
winds forever blow,
sometimes fast,
sometimes slow,
perhaps in sands,
of distant lands,
where landscapes rise,
to simply fall,
innocent they blow,
clouds so high,
in a misty blue sky,
moving rains,
of cold then hot,
driving a sea to flow,
a rushing wave,
eroding faces of rocks,
once thought gods,
now only weak,
they fall and break,
still time goes on,
as winds blow along,
till time dies,
in which winds ride.

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