a piece of a bookthere was a funeral that daythe snow was thick on the ground were the casket laywhite roses sat in tight buncheswhile weeping crows hunched on the benchesthere was a girl on the edge of the graveher hair was long and blondepowdered with snow no one saw the girl exept a dove dressed all in whiteshe stood at the backher eyes were dryshe watched the girl at the gravethe two were sadin the same wayeach knew the otherbut only one would grievethe other was deadit was her time to leave the girl had to stand back as they filled in the graveberrying her bodysealing her faitslowly each crow flew awaytill only
early mornings all alonethere is somthing to be said for mornings. most mornings are awful torturous things that one must slog through to reach the rest of there day. for me those are the mornings i spend with other people. my skills of deception being severly dampened by dawn. but when you are alone in the morning there is no one to decive, so i dont have to lie. there is a hope to mornings, the fact that you can see the whole day spread out before you in blissful solitude. a open book of possability and promise.the light too in the morning is somthing so beautiful, a yellow world with moats of golden and chastles of silver. at my old house i used to get up befor