Forgive me
for having already
written this,
but sometimes
(wracked with thirst)
I must drop the bucket
this dry well.
The rains will come,
they always do,
and I will grow bored
with all the bounty.
I work the winch
and bring up

Waiting for nightfall

The sun comes cruelly over the mountains,

bringing with it a host of terrible truths;

monsters of fact and reality.

This happens each day,

and we mark them…

bless them…

live by them.


I curse them.

They are an end to deep, sweet night…

pure thought,

wild ramblings,

scattered writings.


The sun murders the night, each morning.

Though, at dusk, night rises from its death-sleep,

and together we conspire against sunrise;

riding the night until it dies once more,

then waiting for its rebirth again.

Join me, as I wait for night.