Later Works: The Untimely Death of a Narrativist
illuminate this dark birth right of my soul
free me from this bondage of sorrows
pay these debts of which I’ve stole
a look inside my sad tomorrows.
musty gusts of wounded wind
blew poetry without confusion
through me as if I stumbled in
to dig networks of collect diffusion
The death of my father changed that world
and a spinning head from reel to real
deep waters into which we’re hurled
cleansed my thoughts to let me feel
Bright, Knuckle down to any type of work
as thumbed digital dragging meandertall.