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Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

All Beings Considered

I Long For Stars

The Best Revenge (For All Your Critic's Critiques)

Your Next New Dying Black Swan

The Dreaming Life ( A Series Of Dream Vignettes)

Nothing's Sadder Than A Rose

Not For The Bloom of Tears Cultivated These Last 100 Years

All Too Clearly Now

If This Is Any Art For Which You Care

Informed Through Pain

Sometimes In Losing I Have Gained A Lot

A Man Of The Clouds

The Birds Are Such Un-numbering Creatures of Distant Hitchcockian Past



Didn't You Learn That First Lesson In Kindergarten?

They Grew (A Poem From The Imaginarium)

Cuba Libre


Max on the max

The Little Bird Said

The Factory of Resentments

When My Blues Are Gone

Expect Yourself



Silver-Tongued Devil

Within The Green Wind Becomes The Fall

Think On This--IF YOU WOULD

Open Lines

You Got Your Lilly Back

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Later Hours

I keep later hours.
I like to reside in the
quiet theater of my mind.
Less noise
less people
less static
less need to be
so refined.
Its nice to nestle into
the dark.
I have a permanent place there.
Its mine whenever there is a spark
of beauty or the nudge of something that
just won't recede.
We, the thoughts of mine and me,
keep late night company.
And we are fine.
So much better than you'd think.
Not minding that we should be in bed
with the ordinariness of catching 40 winks.
We've agreed to venture into the venture
of digging into the cranial archives for awhile.
Me and my imagination
have our own schedules, a singular style.
And so what if we rhyme only when we want.
And defy convention and over-sprinkle content
or taunt
after all, its someone else's missed perceptions,
not our own.
We know ourselves better and better.
Let others satisfy themselves by chewing barest bones.
And later hours
suit the palate
we muster all the luster we can
polish, we can hone.

Copyright February 5, 2013  All Rights are Reserved by THIS Author
Melissa A Howells  Meloo from her Tilt-a-World

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