I knew it. I knew I was writing and not listening to that client briefing. 3-month old poems still deserving a debut.
PRANCE
Feel the murmurs.
They dance behind the trees.
And the branches sway, unknowingly.
Obliviously.
To the songs of stabbing crows.
And the wind does not know,
murmurers they be-
that blackness is upon them.
As trees fall to their dance.
EMPTY SHORES
Even in this vast nothingness
I could not write.
Could not say.
It mutes me more. Lures me more-
not to say.
A word.
strapped in @ 
