Poem

Poem There once lived a young boy named Poem, who didn’t quite know how to rhyme, who fancied the fields and the flowers, his mom felt he’d sing of in time. Young Poem liked rowing and painting, and took well to Latin and Greek, Yet, for all that he grew, both in mind and in…

If Words Were a Waltz

If words were a waltz on a page of this stage, men might linger on language, and languish the age as each tip of the heel, with each click of the tongue, renders syllables spoken or broken, as sung. Where each note is a blot bleeding thoughts into strings, when the spots we call words…