Sunday Whirl – Gambling

A bag of answers laugh at me. I’ll reflect upon the smoke of my options left bare. Agents of misfortune band together casting their stones back at my direction.

Time to leave blackjack tables.

Sunday Whirl – Surprised

Color burst surfaced in my mind. A punch to the throat mixed with wrapping chains. I simmered.

“What kind of nut?” I labeled him, as if it matters now.

Sunday Whirl – Sailing

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Nothing born upon the mean sea carrys.  Poor vessels beams shake. No more than a string of the balloon following the cares of the prick.

Loss of Face -Sunday Whirl

The skin off my face flees. Scorn brutally digs at what was once me. The need for cream provides no salve. I hold a storm until my inner poet releases the pain.