be it a rose of winter compares

a dew drop tear on the first open eye,

I still dream of ghosts walking the towns,

I am there with them on rich hunting ground

hindsight retraces all we should’ve been,

and still we are waiting, mute to a dream

my hope ponders spirit, in a world left to die,

confide, we do in each other,

tonight we ride alone

all that thrives has lost i...

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Bodies are burning their oil lamps brightly

from the windows overlooking the church  

their silhouettes shape-shift on the bedroom walls

as they move from room to room,

neither stand still long enough for you 

to grasp who or what they are,

televisions flicker in accord

as if planned in some way, it’s strangely romantic

as if part of a passion play – and I am the only one h...

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