You stood beside the lake, crestfallen, steel blue eyes weeping salty tears into the freshwater lake. This place was so beautiful in the summer. We had a perfect angle on the sun, right next to that old

I ask for no intrusion, give no welcome here. The hour is late, Or mayhaps not. Time plays on in timbres unfathomed – that orchestra of woe, winding wood and brass face; a metronomic bomb swaying back

In times of agony In times when I'm dreary Through hurting blisters And reaping disasters Who'll weep for me? When I'm down on my knees And drowning on the deepest sea When clouds go gray And leaves wither

Nothing moves, save the mould and microscopic tentacles of decay We sit and wait – Watch the fabric of existence tear itself apart All will crumble eventually, the walls, the roof - the sky fall in on

Okay, you’re a movie villain…you’ve dedicated your whole life to the pursuit of evil, probably for no other reason than your well-to-do parents made you practice the bassoon for eight hours a day, then

The edge crumbles pushing me back. Nearly fell into the depths but still on my feet. For how long, I wonder it must turn to dust one day. Hurtling towards an uncertain end, I wonder for how long I must

She plays to an audience of one, battered fingers repeating notes that remind her of the summer rain (la lluvia de verano), that fell in arpeggios on the courtyard where the jasmin bloomed.  Gone

It’s almost that time of year. Writers cracking their fingers and stocking up on coffee granules, laptops charged, pencils sharpened, and a dream of a finished novel in their minds… That’s right… November

Getting people to admit that fossils fuels are a leading driver for climate change is like trying to get a turkey to vote for Christmas. It just wouldn’t happen. We all love the convenience of our cars,