Worn
She was a muse
In the hands of those
Who handled her poorly
Who built castles in the sky
Upon her shattered smile
With the fractured pieces of her heart
Without regard for her unguarded while
To devour her like used rags
And recycled paper
“SHE WAS A MUSE IN THE HANDS OF THOSE WHO HANDLED HER POORLY”
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THE ANCHORAGE
There came the fiery loughIn a cavern not too far awayI retreated to the firth of your benign an
Golden Violin
He made a song about meSang to me like therapyEnthralled by his golden violinHe pledged his de
So Long
If you must leaveThen let it be like thisWith a thoroughfare of pastimesOf our fondest of memorie
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