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Bruised, battered,
And still locked,
When darkness, …

Growing up,
My father often said,
“Be like a man, …

I frequently look back,
Trying to catch instants,
Escaping through my hands. …

There are whiles,
We must wait,
For the right time, …

When the time arrives,
We all fade.
It’s nature’s way. …

Magic resides,
In ordinary,
Yet obscure spots. …

Eyes,
Too can talk.
Silently, …

When the path is clear,
But the end,
Anything but near, …

Standing with others,
Is easy,
Often reassuring. …

Golden age relics,
Never cease to shine.
Unless they are old, …

There still are a few,
Who wear their fame,
In a most humble way.

We bloomed,
In lush green fields,
Dancing with colors, …

Dangling frozen, or
Feeling upside down.
Not every day, …

Some things we see,
Seem hard to believe.
And the world is filled, …

Flying through the air,
To faraway places.
Whether in a plane, …

Today I perceived,
That over time,
Wood also wrinkles, …