Was there ever me?

The night,

bitter cold,

my breath, like brush strokes,

painting the moon lit sky.

Is it the cold or the solitude that cuts so deep?

Hands thrust into coat pockets,

collar pulled up against the wind,

a wind that covers the sounds of a man


Tear filled eyes capturing

blurred images of a distant tree line,

hoping to see, someone…someone that knew

the me

a man of gentle madness and rage,

all those things

that make a person who they are

…a man both tempered and tarnished

through he years.

with heavy sigh,

the images clear,

the trees, the moon

and the solitary man…painting the sky.

Author: MW Moore

I am surrounded by books with great, even heroic quotes, grand philosophies and theologies, mysteries and wonderments. I've never met an author of any. Oh what a finer person I would be if I had raised my voice above the pounding of the sea with Cicero, walked with Saul on that road to Damascus and on and on and on. Well, I didn't. But I've met some pretty swell people that had something to say...and many are related to me; they're My Family Jewels.

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