While I take care of my mom’s last business, I won’t be posting for a while, but I will honor my commitments to Crystal Collier on 11/21. So until then The Write Game goes dark. Thanks for understanding.
Death doesn’t enter on slippered feet.
It wears hobnailed boots and stomps its way across heart of the Dying,
across the hearts of the Children
who glimpse their destinies.
At the end, all wear deep imprints.
All endure the sharp, uncaring footfalls of the master.
I resort to poetry under stress. It must have to do with the succinct immediacy that poetry offers writers. A distillation of emotions. So here they are. My distilled thoughts for the day.