Poetry

French Toast

It is on Sunday And mostly late in the day Scent buttery sweet A ride in the car and the roof all the way down Light blue eyes and sky What lasts forever? All of this turns to rubble After time weathers Charred and burned on stove with baby boy on her hip Smoke a… Continue reading French Toast

Writings

My Sundays are dead. Truly.

Thanks a whole hell of a lot Negan. You have truly ruined everything for me. Another Sunday, another day of The Walking Dead. I amĀ  not only excited but a little disappointed. Tonight is the season finale. To ease that pain somewhat we get theĀ season premier of Fear (The Walking Dead). And, this is the… Continue reading My Sundays are dead. Truly.