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I place a hand grenade into a box of words and pull the pin. I hold a pad in front of my face and wait for the boom. I call the resulting destruction...poetry.
In white halls of oaken boughs
... continued
He dreams
He wakes in silence
... continued
Beside gray mist that beckoned me
... continued
By the elms in the hollow
Is a path that my feet are fated to follow
... continued
Where grasses bleed the sun's goodbye
... continued
It can only mean
I'm already dead
... continued
Springs on the lips of lovers
The taste of sugar
... continued
Is a voice forever taunting
In the dark corners of my unforgiveness
... continued
to lounge and work on his tan.
Some think it quite rude,
... continued
lived the two men, Harry and Dane.
The car was all rusty.
... continued