“Each day is a little life: every waking and rising a little birth, every fresh morning a little youth, every going to rest and sleep a little death.”—Arthur Schopenhauer
1 God has created a new day… morning’s triumph over sleep my cup of consolation before the noon sun sips me like bloody prey i look not back at nightmares i have ridden saddleless where bareback riders fear to dream
2 silver and green and gold… entice me from out of reach far from my drooling...
"We grow too soon old and too late smart...in this busy hurry-up world." – Aggregated from state address by Gov. Andrew Cuomo, 2020 March 19
in this busy hurry-up world, COVID-19 squarely hurled at a panic-driven race, we must shelter find in place. symptomatic pandemonium fattened by intense opprobrium rapes a nation's equilibrium, congress-locked in death's symposium.
secret agents fully armed spread the deadly SARS alarm. innocent of wisdom, they ...
A little night music for a little day dancing makes perfect harmony. –cab
night sleeps and dreams upon my weary eyes day wakes upon my brow but this i know that when night dies new sunshine bids me rise to battle with myself, rationalise, and mingle with the flow of foes i know eager dark nights to make of daylight skies
night steals from me my vigour and my vim day pulls my curious strings and sweetly sings diurnal songs that night makes dull and grim for sleep is death's most fitting pseudonym give me an...
the cat would on my doormat stay behold the dog – he barks to meow the quiet hours away and in his eyes are sparks her furry purr a ball of tease enticing him to wag by which she seeks my heart to please the way most canines brag
a bowl of milk will pacify a bone is his reward the feline whims that classify for keeping robust guard this puff of fleeting innocence he’s my sincerest friend that fills my life with eloquence until the journey’s end.
It is still an unending source of surprise for me how a few scribbles on a blackboard or on a piece of paper can change the course of human affairs. —Stanislaw Ulam
i in younger days, i wrote all my phantasies in sand but the waves ate every morsel, leaving no bones for me. went all my thoughts afloat to some strange and foreign land, every secret from my castles interred upon the sea.
ii skywritings filled the clouds, rhymes that occupied the world, but no one cared for the...
All the flowers of all the tomorrows are in the seeds of today.” —Indian Proverb
do not be sorry for my plight though i am left for dead these wings will one day find their flight when earth and sky are wed hard knocks are heaven's building blocks discouragement the glue when dreams tossed hard against the rocks are covered by mildew
the butterfly when wings are new must struggle on its own to find its fulcrum though askew it is by foul winds blown thus buried deep beneath the dust and...
If we cannot be ourselves, there is no need for a mirror. —Author unknown
lately you've been staring in the mirror, greatly stung by glaring waves of pain. stately once, your bearing for tomorrow, saintly was your daring down the lane when, with childhood eyes, you glimpsed the future, no myth seeming far too grand for real. no kith, kin can rob you of the pleasure wherewith youth of virtue milks appeal.
There is a way that seemeth right unto a man, but the end thereof are the ways of death.” (Prov. 14:12 KJV)
i cursed the light for exposing the secrets of my bosom as time slipped through my fingers like dead sand sifted by the wind. i dared to fight to the closing of paths where by the fulcrum i've been whipped. pain still lingers ...