“Rude am I in speech, and little blessed with phrase of peace……but words are words; and I have yet to hear that the bruised heart is pierced through the ear.”

I wrote that on my mother’s tombstone with the blood of my own fingers. A milky black blood like the ink of a worn out pen, and I wept at the sight of it among the bright green moss and silver rocks aligned her grave. She was the only woman besides my wife who ever loved me whole. But I was only a child when she died. And I…

MERRY CHRISTMAS ! TO ALL POETS AND FRIENDS HERE.HAVE HEALTH AND HAPPINESS!…