writing
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“I raise the sheet, I seek the moon, for shadows, thoughts, or signs— a whispered ‘I love you’ soon, to make the darkness mine.” (A Song) [Verse 1] It’s Monday evening now, I’ve scoured corners, bare and bleak— beneath the table’s shadowed bow, where dust and silence speak. Inside cracked vases, hollow, still,
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The freight train steams, a beast of coal and fire, its breath a plume of white, a ghostly spire. It devours miles, relentless in its chase, through valleys deep and summits it can’t erase. Its hunger burns—a furnace, bright and white, consuming all that dares to cross its sight. In its wake, lives smolder,
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The pull… to push, With stenciled lettered tiles beneath these worn fingertips, Leads me back to you. As I recall, the night before, When you, my queen, Held court in a palace not our own, Yet made me feel at home. A banquet feast served, My eyes locked on, The beauty, Chalice cup,
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I smoked my first Parliament cigarette today. I’m not a smoker, but I’ve had maybe 40 cigarettes in my life. Second-hand smoke? I lived with a father who smoked two packs a day until I left for college. Google tells me I’ve smoked ‘20 pack-years’(a back year being 20 cigarettes) indirectly. Add my own, and
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“In the beginning was the Word,” and boy, was it capitalized like it knew it was important! This Word isn’t just any word; it’s a symbol, a stand-in for everything from your coffee mug to your existential dread. Imagine, if you will, this Word was there before the thing it represents even existed. Like, did
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I just wanted to start writing, but the internet gods were clearly conspiring against me this morning. Here I am, almost 30 minutes later, after Windows decided to throw a tantrum with an update, and the Monarcha Bakery, home of my beloved café tres leches, declared me public enemy number one by blocking my login.
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Luna, I’ve been an idiot. Not your garden-variety, forgot-to-buy-milk idiot, but a premium-grade, head-stuck-firmly-up-my-own-behind kind of idiot. These past months, especially this week, I’ve been about as present as a ghost at a party – technically there, but not really making an impact. Our talk today hit me like a cold shower at 5 AM.
BB Grey--musings 