Reclusive Writer
Avoid society
Avoiding the light
Always a pen in hand
Footprints in the sand
Ponder the night
Black ink bleeds off the pages
Mind always racing
Reasoning between the lines
A poet is isolated
Solitude in darkness
Just a small candle glaring
My shadow whispers next to me
Focus on my work
A cemetery is planted next door
A reclusive writer
A mystery story teller
Dragging behind on paper
Mind fading at dusk
Empty spaces
Empty thoughts
Sometimes, writer's block
Eyes are blurry
Another cigar burning
Locked up in my room
Pages are crumpled up
A new title
For a new poem
We are writers in the dark
We are chained to the desk
We write on
Bus Shelter
Driving past a crudely made bus shelter, it looks like concrete box
I took a picture because a mystery story was told about it.
A stormy winter night a man found the shelter it had a bench
glad the he was dry and he waited and waited only the bus didn`t
drive on this road any longer.
Years later passers-by found a skeleton the police was called but
the bones had no papers to tell his name and a mystery was born.
My dog disappeared when she found her way home she was
tired and petrified and like the skeleton could tell me nothing.
I think she was lured into the van of a hunter, tied up in his backyard to
be trained as a hunting dog. She got loose and ran and
ran perhaps for days and too scared to approach people.
She overcame this trauma lived a long life and now is a skeleton in
a black bin bag in the outhouse.
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