I now wonder if/
I should disturb your slumber/
with mem’ried sweet kiss.

Even when I dress/
up, I still have that Northwest/
grunge look goin’ on.

Sometimes/
the poet/
doth forget/
meter, verse and rhyme,/
becoming becalmed/
in his song,/
overwhelmed with the sublime./
This is one/
of those silent times.

The longer the wait,/
the more certain I become./
Nothing will happen.

When a life/
hangs in the balance,/
and silence,/
like a knife,/
cuts, U take a chance;/
send flowers, candy,/
verse;/
hope it’s bad technology,/
not something worse.

Some months ago she/
claimed she didn’t have time for/
me. She was correct.

The morning fled to/
midnight. She never returned./
I’m now mid-mourning.