The Stoner

There be a stoner, a mighty old one, wrinkled skin, twisted toes, frail and fragile, as if a tiny little nudge can dismantle his assembled soul. He’s not a person, not at least now, may be once, but long forgotten. Now he is a shadow of a soul. He is fragmented so is his mind. He would talk you through rubbish and say nothing, but then when you least expect it he says the thing. Spec...

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There was nobody else here
the body said
without leaving any clues
like a detective novel would.

There was no cold murder
with the thrust of
a steel knife
and no silent voilence
that stung in the night.

This body lay there un-found
with a zen like silence
for long than it could remember
staring at the moon-light
the sun-light
and then the moon-light again
fo...

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