It’s only February. and I’m already dreaming of travel. First on my travel bucket list? Iceland. See why I want to go and you should too. … More My 2020 Travel Bucket List: Iceland
Ashes dance in the midnight sky,Whose inky waves rippleWith the wailing wind. Fire roarsAs it cascades down the hills, and the forestWhirs with commotion. Birds and beastsOf every fur and feather flee For the babble of the river. But the blazeEncircles and traps.Its fingers splayed, orange and red,Pull leaf, lumber, and those still livingTighter tighter … More To Ruin
The sparrows flitAmidst autumn grovesOf ash and of oak.Their songs slipLike a gossamer breezeThrough the branches,Whose outstretched armsEmbrace the tuneWith rosy fingers splayed. Beneath the boughs,On a bed of moss,I drift into reverie.The shade is thick,The leaves fall,And the sparrows sing on. I listen with one ear perkedAnd another nestled in dirt.Sleep will take me.Winter … More The Sparrows’ Song
I have finished the first draft of the final book in the Ashborne Chronicles. The book will be titled Sure as Stone. Although I still have a lot of editing to do, I thought I’d tease you with the first chapter. Spoilers for anyone that hasn’t read the series yet! Bound in StringThe summer sun … More Sure as Stone Teaser
Tulips spring From the morbid earth, Their leaves fleshy and green. One by one, Their petals splay, Tender to smell And to touch. And all the while The sun rises On weepy skies And wind-choked streets. Brown and decrepit, The grass lies low, As bulbs beyond count Slumber in ground below. Alone, The tulips stand … More Before Their Time
Past the thorny brush In Oakwood Hollow Lies a silver pool Bathed in starlight. Shadows Dance while the streams froth, And a bitter wind scampers Among the leaves. A lonely traveler stops To wipe his beaten brow. The path has lost him And his wits have left him, For in circles he walks, Around and … More The Silver Pool in Oakwood Hollow
Fireflies flit Around the beckoning flames Like paper lanterns, Shimmery and gold, Floating towards the sun. You hum a labored tune Deep in your weary chest. The air is crisp, Your fingers numb. Your voice fails. Your head falls While the scorched logs Hiss, and the smoke Rises ever higher.