Books  Bio  Media  Photography  Blog  Contact 
Poetry Prose
×

POETRY

Time Itself

It is the space between us
It is the pause in our breaths
It is the echo of what could have been
In a void with no depth

It watched us lean forward
Our hands almost touched
It held the cold glass there
When in Time we placed trust

It was patient, relentless
It let every second fall
Like rain on the rooftops
Through cracks in the wall

Every glance that we gave
Its meaning it stole
Every maybe we whispered
It swallowed up whole

As we both grasped the doorknob
From opposite sides
It half-closed the door
And locked all inside

Time itself is a thief that hides
It waits in the corners
As the years it bestrides

×

PROSE

Sneak peek at new work coming soon. Working title is Cellophane Ink

The moon beamed softly through the window as Alexander Schell sat in the silence of his darkened room. His house was a Tudor-style residence sequestered in the wooded hills, perched on a cliff above the roaring ocean. Inside it was silent. His home office was a sanctuary of old money and sharp minds. Dark mahogany paneling wrapped the walls like a well-tailored suit, its surface gleaming faintly under the golden luster of a brass chandelier. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves towered on three sides, their shelves creaked under the weight of leather-bound volumes, some so old their spines had begun to crack with dignified age.

At the center sat a wide cherry wood desk, its edges beveled and polished to a mirror finish. A green-shaded banker's lamp cast a pool of warm light across neat stacks of paper. And next to it was an antique fountain pen, resting next to a crystal tumbler half-full of scotch. He sat behind the desk in a high-backed leather chair, slightly worn in certain places, which stood like a throne of quiet influence. The scent of old paper, wood polish, and faint cigar smoke lingered in the air, mixing with the hush that only comes from wealth. Even the silence had a weight to it. The windows were ensconced by thick velvet drapes, and there was the soft strum of a grandfather clock counting time like a heartbeat in the corner.