A Passing Friend

A passing friend is what they say to me. I walk the miles with canvas shoes and sack, But should they want a friend to come for tea, An offer of a bed to rest my back? The night is long, I toss and tu... Read More

Scissorhands

The dark lays heavy ‘pon my brightest day —  The thought of What is diff’rent? matters not. I feel the barbs — they pierce — what people say:  How could my heart and soul b... Read More