Murders sweep neighbourhoods. Feathered obsidian passing across skylines silvery as sterling statues rusting into sunsets, auburn as feathers …Murder, He Wrote by Jack M. Freedman

There is only one me Amid a countless number of voids If I develop a sense of value amid these giant gaping holes I would feel like a million My worth is a dime Picayune sense of security My heart is a fraction of itself I need to run far beyond this point to come … Continue reading Ode to a Million