Small Thoughts

I’m surprised I’m not used to this
living life in increments
Time…broken up into pieces
short, premeditated conversations;
ode to the Postal Service,
and hail, she, who sends photographs.
My playground of sin.
My carnival of September winds
and star painted skies.
warm surges of season’s graces
and one face of many smiles.
The masks on clowns that please the masses;
just as my acclaimed love.
Ulterior motives always hidden beneath
so real – that it never was.