On the highway The moon sitting atop a distant bridge Slowly pulling us forward On a tide of asphalt Street lights flash past Dashes become one line But the moon never changes
A blank stare at the spine of a Cursed Child. Where on The Farm he learned the Art of a Beautiful Game.
The death of a former colleague reminds me how inconsequential my life is.
How joining Scribophile made me a better writer and how joining a writing group can help you.
Bloggers are awesome.