Muses Stories

Down the middle are white birds flying against the hard, black sea. They fly past me, almost through me, and thin sun beams follow quickly past. The end of the sky is met with gray ashes that run down the seams keeping the whole scene together. A rumble under my feet reminds me of the continents shaking and growling as they moved into place. Rubber against the deep, asphalt sky rolls and pushes off the wings of the white...

when rain comes in January on the plainsI sit with my favorite teareflect on my past you may say on past deeds this humble soul the good the funny and yes the badwith the cold wind from the northand place another log on the firewatching the flames dance and mocktelling this tired soul you have been badbut good outshone your deeds of oldlisten to the rain hitting the metal roof overheadtelling you to sip your tea all is we...