Amelia In The Frame

RDP Thursday – DEEP


Her name is Amelia and she hangs upon my wall

trapped in a frame

from a five and ten cent store.


Her eyes are flat and cold

her cheeks are pale and slack

Her jaw is wired shut

there are metal hands upon her back.


The bow on top her head

has been tied with love and care

and someone long ago

curled her long brown hair.


Her dress was to big and her shoes didn’t fit

and every time

she saw them hanging  in her closet

she closed her eyes and said;

” Ma, I’m just dying to wear this dress. ”

Before winter hit,  she did.



Winter Is Coming

RDP Friday – Regret

I should have pushed my way to the front of the line

and held the door open wide for everyone else


I should have laughed harder

 and not answered back

so promptly

when I was spoken to.

I should have


less obedient

less compassionate

I should have been more hateful

more deceitful

I should have  been so much less

so I could have lived more

like the faces that rush by me

and call me friend.

The Garden Over The Hill

Ragtag Daily Prompt Thursday – A Flower Cried

Over the hill

from where I live

is a garden

where nothing grows, except regret.

In the garden

over the hill

from where I live

nothing grows


there are no more second chances

there are no more disappointing kisses ,

no more hellos,

no tortured goodbyes

no one here will ever  miss bus, or train or  lose money or catch a cold.

In the garden

over the hill from where I live

the stone angels look like they’re crying ,

but they have never shed a tear

the flowers, cut down in their prime, when they are at their brightest

 weep and fade when it’s their time to go

like all of us do

on the other side of the hill

from the garden

where nothing grows.

Photo A.M Moscoso

Photo A.M. Moscoso

Photo A.M. Moscoso

Thinking Out Loud

Photo by Matthis Volquardsen on


Is that my face

in the mirror

are those my eyes looking at me

with cool, cruel indifference?


I reach out my hand, draw it back, extend  a finger

tap, tap, tap

Is anybody home?

Are those my teeth,

is that my hair

when did those lines around my mouth appear?


That can’t be me

that  tired listless, expressionless face

has it ever dreamed, schemed or plotted

an escape, a murder or revenge?


Tap tap tap

against the mirror

clouding it with the cold that escapes from my lungs

and clings to it like poison gas

on a battlefield

from Once Upon A Time.


That can’t be my face.

It’s just to-




Friends for Life.

I was left for dead

in a house full of rats

where the rooms were

decorated with treachery and betrayal.


I was left for dead

in a house full of rats

denied a decent grave

it’s as if I never existed

but the rats knew I was there.


I think they dream of me

I know I still dream of them.

We talk about you when our eyes are closed

and we plan to

visit you


for a bite.

The Next Chapter

Hand to page


word to eye

the writer’s nightmare

is mine tonight.


Will I wake

will it end

will I ever sleep again?


The Writer’s Nightmare

is inside of my head

and it will feast on my fear

until I am cold and dead.


Am I gone

am I a ghost

am I just a neglected

and forgotten corpse?


Book in hand

trapped in a scream

am I bound to be

the Writer’s Next Dream?