Counting on dawn
Category: Poetry
At eighteen, they
What are we fighting for?
First worlds
the first and the last are lost to us
Turning pages near the end
You know it's there, waiting.
Every evening
conversations at the bus stop
cut-off
the seductive shallows
to love is to lose
for a brief moment
Naked Power
make (insert country here) grate again
Keeping time
... each pendulum swing slicing time
Because
Dedicated to every tired, worn-out parent who wishes their kids would just grow up already.
