CONTINUUM

He was dying by degrees,

though degrees were not his style.

Life was for the seizing;

By the throat, on open

THE RUSTIC STILE AT LANES END

At lanes end

The rustic stile

Stands sentinel still

Marking that special place

I blame you,

You blame me

Words fly

Tears prevail

Doors slam

And sarcasm sails

Take a walk

Stomp the floors

Plop

One day of our love

As the morning hour breaks through the window of the night
The sight that comes after dreaming and shadows