Danny Robbins

As a cold toe touches warm bathwater.
As a fire melts away the frigid night air.
My dear, it's you.
...

The sun rises,
the birds sing,
a kettle whistles it's early tune.
Who will you be this monday morning?
...

Her lips,
a bridge between indifference and purpose,
spands across the great empty void and the turbulent river,
crashing over the jagged rocks.
...

Through broken shades
the morning sun burns wet eyes.
Amongst the rays, she fades
a broken heart burried alive
...