Graham Words

You should've seen his face when they called him a "pig." Just salty and lipid!

This snow in April, our returning Ides of March How long we have waited like dogs watching from the window to see spring return Sunny rays should have cast their light into the blue puddles, like fishermen with their nets Instead, this snow reminds us of Arctic explorers who should be turning 'round for home Winter's white emptiness holds on with pale knuckles I have long known man to be a deceiver... And now nature too

This snow in April, our returning Ides of March For months have we dreamt of tennis shoes at puddles' fringe, the sun casting its rays into the blue like a fisherman's net Yet winter's white emptiness holds on with pale knuckles The songs of robins seem not so much melodic as discordant  When I saw two on a snowy patch, I wondered if they felt tricked

The light resigns, like the honor of a decorated soldier who just lost the war, those ribbons and medals losing colour to the overcast. And that empty moon, how it shines like a coin at the bottom of a well, or a marble in the corner of a basement. It looks lost, is a mirror to the solitude of man. And nobody's coming for it. The sky is black and starless, as silent as a withdrawn friend. As if the wind that thrashes like a drunk weren't enough, man himself refuses the night. In his galaxy of thoughts, there's just one more piece of missing knowledge and a million imperfections to worry over— up until the wheelbarrow of ideas becomes too heavy to push.

Motion hangs like a picture on the wall, circumscribed by four sides, floor, and door, while process and idleness play tug-of-war Get up—but from boredom to boredom I fall Towards novelty, the other side of home Solitude is parched, for I am not alone With distance kept, the lap is nearly made, when suddenly, looking unto thrice trees, none cast their own shadow, but a unity Yet this separateness of self, I did not trade