abandoned and left for dead
hundred and seven degree day
heat fueled the thirst, then the darkness came
bringing a chill to the plane
stratus clouds hovered knee high
a glowing glass bottle in sight
flowing with liquid vitamins and energy
only the dying would consume that gasoline

last drop of gas hits the tongue
bottled up stratus bits to take back home
no place to go, but grade A die...

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Perpetually living in a space and time between now and wanderlust!

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I am a word wanderer

peripatetic poetry is my voyage,

each syllable a serendipitous moment,

vowel vitality fuels every page

while a loquacious line forks off into two distances

leaving a double and doubtful sense

to my meanderings

all the better for the turn of phrase,

adding to the journey

is a consonant chaos of juxtaposition and alliteration,

a choice to turn left ...

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