The heart explodes into a million fragments of star
falling toward paper as a Meteor shower of words:
birth of the muse.

Thoughts of you are like endless herds of leaves scuttling across the Autumnal field of my mind.

Sometimes when the ocean feels too cold
I want to rise and break like a wave over
the precipice of your strength, sending
shards of fear to sink like glass into the sea.

I love taking pictures like this.

Does this count?

Fear is the captor of Truth;
vulnerability the force that sets it loose



no matter where it goes.

Nakedness of truth:
dried brushes and empty tubes;



life with no muse.

Vulnerability:



offer me your coat,
at least.

What's behind it?