Sharpen now a crescent for the rite of moonshine, Bullets will not halt the flight of moonshine. Clouds germinate on the zephyrs from wet hills, The heart leaps windward with the kite of moonshine. I count my blessings over…
A Mélange of memoirs, fiction, short stories, verses, book reviews and uncorked angst.
Sharpen now a crescent for the rite of moonshine, Bullets will not halt the flight of moonshine. Clouds germinate on the zephyrs from wet hills, The heart leaps windward with the kite of moonshine. I count my blessings over…