I remember those days
Of catching grasshoppers
And picking clovers
And tossing the ball
Till the sun hides at the horizon

And the neighborhood streets
Glow in dusk dark blue
And our skin glistens
With sweat, dirt, grass,
And scraped shins of the day
As the fireflies parade their
Stuttering light-show
Strobing around the backyard
Like tiny comets while
The call of the cicadas
Serenades us.

Your hand reaches for mine.
There’s a warm breeze.

You show me the dry shedded skin
Of the cicada nymph
That you found still attached to the
Side of the neighbor’s house.

I didn’t think I remembered.
But I do.

You’re still with me.


Ages of Man

Ages of Man

Ages of Man

And the ages of man
trickle down the fragile glass
like tears of a mother
in mourning for the child she never knew.
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Year of Writing Ardently

Collection of Writing Journals

Writing. It is one of those passions that I loved doing when I was younger. I do not know if it was the angst of teenagedom or the disaffected fantasies of a shy boy who was too spoiled for his own good, but I wrote. I wrote a lot. I loved to write. I want to write more now, but sometimes I feel that my passion for writing is stronger than my will to write.

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