Miami International

Seven hours was the wait Till dawn did show her grace, And troubled slumber To rough a wake In this a sterile place. The journey home, however long Are miles counted away, A long stretched glance To horizons gone From dawn till dusk a day. Scents of fleur from lands gone by Paris, Spain and Rome Are gone when winds Rush to my nose The lovely grass of home.

menoh

I am a button pusher. I stir up trouble. It is what I do. I live in the borders between light and dark. I can write about beautiful things, and joy and love, but I find I am more creative when i write about the dark. I love to hold a mirror up to the...

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