A Honey-pot of Sadness

I need a honey-pot of sadnessOf hot blankets and sticky tearsI need to taste its rich silenceAnd feel its brazen smears   I need a honey-pot of sadnessTo adorn my gold-gloomed criesI need the emotions to caressMy rusted soul with sweet ties I need a honey-pot of sadnessTo touch the warmth of a slashI need to

Fearless Frances

I’m never unsettled by anything. Expect if you count the dentist’s office, and the dentist himself whom I treat with an air as tense as an encounter with a dangerous wild boar.However not withstanding this, when I was seven, I was coined the nickname ‘the Fearless Frances’ by a passing childhood friend and it was

Untouchable

I am dead in bright sunlightThrowing rocks at the endless edgeMy cold eyes lie in a blindfold of plightAs the vast space stretches in arcsLike a mystery rune in eternal sight. To nudge the traces of bone shadows Is all I yearn of this black-misted glideBut hurling awry cries at this vague faceIs my only