Wicked games we play, tangled webs we weave, wandering, wondering; what it all means.

Alliteration absolute,


and vermouth –

shoulda’ woulda’ coulda’ and I don’t.

Oh? – he asks, puzzled-

Then angry, Why the hell not?

Again, never you mind

it’s none of your beeswax good sir.

I see right through, to the heart of you, where miracles are held by the bay. From near, we are far, like driving in a car; couldn’t help but notice the fray. Little frazzled, still bedazzled, a sparkle of chrome here to stay.

But I thought…

No. You didn’t think – that’s the problem.

Here’s one for you, one for me, as they wrapped around a tree, snuggling branches as if to say they’d never hugged (see…)

Nope, not today, will not enter into maze –

nor wander aimless with no mark.

kick rocks or whatever.

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