The abyss you stare into and that stares back at you is your reflection in the mirror - we all have it - that shadow self - that dark heart.
Poetry is paying attention to life when all the world seems asleep to its beauties and truths.
Dark furrow lines grid the snow, punctuated by orange abacus beads of pumpkins - now the crows own the field.
I see myself at crossroads in my life, mapless, lacking bits of knowledge - then, the Moon breaks through, lights up the path before me.
Sunday evenings are heavier than clouds with rain, darker too and often interminable.
That icy glass reduces your beauty - dims your fire - let me be your mirror...
I'm a modern mountebank - I believe in Physiognomy - after all, we are in control of our face - it's the map of where we've been.
