Much can happen close to home. I found myself spending time in Riverside, CA as part of Between the Tables, at the Riverside Art Museum, and March for Our Lives. The High School Students from Riverside County organized MARCH FOR OUR LIVES, RIVERSIDE.

Mostly poetry with occasional graphics prompted by the 3 year cycle of the Revised Common Lectionary. Plus some occasional more personal stuff. So the ancient story says,. The girl is with child;. This is a thing of wonder,. Of hope and of joy.

Treading the less traveled paths, freeing the shackles and binds, Striving to free the soul, in the span of this lifetime. My words in a flow. My pieces in a whole. That has me in its hold. To fill the void inside. And find myself a home. If they do, always in staggered form. Let the flow take me to places.

Poems, musings, notes, reflections and stories on life, love and living. Colours changing with the breeze. There are times when watching life expire. Becomes an experience to behold,. Opening the portal to another world. So different from ours, I am told.

This blog is dedicated to the struggles of humanity, the inevitable doom and the pain of isolation. There are some things which we cannot say, which stay inside us and rot and kill the real us slowly. This blog is for anyone who wants to speak and be understood, and for anyone who wants to read, understand and feel he is not alone. Sylvia because she will understand. Join 1,920 other followers.

My name is a season, my soul is old, and this is my life in a blog. Sometimes, my dreams fall into crevices of reality. Splintering my thoughts into detailed webs of delusion and truth. Sometimes, I am alone. I am alone within the echoes of laughter that resonate between old and new friends.

Where words go to die. To be disgusted by society. Everyone looking for an instant fix. That will fuck for fun. Yet I want more than this. Sure men are the same. Looking for the next place. I want more than simple skin. I watch them use the words. That they do not understand. And fuck me for being who I am. The wind is blowing through the graves.

A collection of poetry, photography, writing, and art. I am sitting in total darkness. I am trying not to breathe too loud. My eyes are adapting to the dark. All that stands between us is a line of doors. His fist on the first door.

I write to you,. You, only you,. I put your love,.

Dreams of a Dying Scientist. To shame the assumptions my foes make. 8217;cause I know am like a roaring river bank that never runs dry,. Hook me on the windmills. And watch me blow away in the winds. If I should hang on cobwebs. Cut me down and calm me with dancing echoes,. And if I happen to disappear,. Find me on the windmills.