Faded Plot

What haven’t we found
lurking in the bright meadows
because we’re more apt to scour
the long, draining night?

The slums of faded parchments
have less to fear now,
their faces never slated to grow
the lines that would wrinkle their brow
and make them memorable.

When flowers aren’t cared for
they Continue reading

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Making Passion, Making Life – A Review of Scott McCloud’s The Sculptor

Scott McCloud's The Sculptor

Simply incredible.

Whenever a book moves me so thoroughly that it becomes an instant favourite the moment I close the back cover, I am compelled to sit down and write a review to sing its praises. With the Sculptor, I’d initially just sat here speechless, absorbing how remarkable of a read-in-a-single-sitting book it is. But now I know how to explain how positively it affected me. Continue reading

Benign

I have been dead a very long, long, long time.
Yet surges of vermillion burst to my

idea-struggled hands.
It is routinely terminal.

My veins are electric and the
fever coursing through

me is akin to a sheltered virus.
With no hope for camaraderie,

dusk comes to my mind.
I am a lonely patient zero.

-B.W. Gladney

Tattered Shelves

And here I am running out of ink.

My study does well to confine me
with its oaken, tattered shelves;
I’ve come to scribble, leaving the rain alone outside
And it’s gone and got itself lost.

I never let a coin drop without
it having first been flipped.
I often choose the inveterate echo
over either shiny side.

My thinking cap is brisk and knowing
full-well of its poisonous nature
I don it daily.
It is a bit tight, but

It suits me.

-B.W. Gladney

Morpheus

I am the daydream.
A mind slip-up of the daytime hour.
Bring me deeper—I will teach you to write of Midsummer Nights.
Dust pouch, a shattered ruby
(for I know dreams are worth more than rubies),
A sigil mask of power.
I do not trip over trembling void.
My possibilities exist only within yours.
What memories have you for me today?
My crown can serve all men of Continue reading

Soaking Ambition

In the mind there is a border-

The brave may cross, the cowards may lean, but

This is not an excuse to stay idle.

The word of the day is manacle

It is something to avoid, or, if you can’t,

To break.

It is harsh here.

The rubble stairs are inviting,

The oil-slick coasts are full of moors

And every candle burns at both ends.

We are all of us Sisyphus.

-B.W. Gladney