The Belgian Quarter

I like the morning
The path untrodden and the flag firmly furled
They clean the detritus of the night before
When I hid behind my hotel room door

The wilderland forged from clay and sand
Fresh foliage from a spray can
Gives up it's starting role as,
The bustle steals my quiet stroll

 

The Muffin Man

Apple Muffin
Apparently I'm the Muffin Man
I don't live on Drury Lane
But when faced with mounds of baked goods
I choose the muffin, over and over again

Apparently I'm the Muffin Man
I'm not a fan of change
So when there are no muffins
It messes with my brain

I know that I'm the Muffin Man
And what you might not see
I find a comfort in consistency
That soothes my anxiety

Untitled Winter Verse

There's a harsh beauty in her
her fairer sister can never hope to possess.
It can't be replicated 
only worn in over time 
like a fine patina
Stews of rich red wine with 
musky herbs of depth and desire 
added slowly over time

A beauty that creeps on you 
like a dreich November fog
Settling the silence of a soft Sunday lie in.

Tea, toast and icy cuddles

(image by dark777fairy)

Life’s gift

No morals
No sense of right or wrong
No concept of race
No religion
No beliefs of any kind
No team or tribe
No favourite colour (mine is green)
No spelling for colo(u)r
No love
No hate
No pride
No prejudice
No expectations or aspirations

Just life for the living.