small poems

Writing the Bones
I wonder if
I’m brave enough
to travel into dark spaces.

Confusion and gun powder
no one escapes
the promise
of fear.

Knocking at my door
to answer would not
be wise
the spectre
rears its ugly head
fishing for a victim
not this time.
Not me
my road leads
elsewhere

Dreams shuffle through 
An unending series 
of poorly taken photos
Stop haunting me spirit
You spent far less time
with me
In life

Awakened so late
I fail in everything 
I had started 

Hearing the ring
in hopeful waiting
the call once again
goes to voicemail.

As the old year leaves me
bereft
my candle of small hopes
burns just a bit
brighter