on streets I should not be on..

Here under the moonlight,
by this Cinnamon scent candle-light
this tired back porch
I write..

We all hear
so many end up the same..
Every encounter perilous,
reasonable thoughts
on jagged streets...

[the encounter]

Winters are no more bitter
but fall weighted, and yellowed.
This breath is shallow,
it has lived to much.

Accumulation of memories
missed dirt in furrow's
of aging skin.

Tonight the fire
is none less giving,
brings Me here
among peeling paint
sweet taste of "Port.

I died, and was born here...after the mutiny..
but life still leaves me
its graves to rob.

I am no more than my night will
produce..but exception to the next human..
a gnarled hand was offered....it pleased Me..

[I walked away in thought..
if there is a God..protect this man] Vincent

Copyright © Vincent ... [2007-07-24

Last edited by lane1777; 10/11/17 10:14 PM.

"Grace always pours from a closing wound"