I woke with a fright, something wasn’t alright

I ran to the door and there on the floor

Was Mario’s lost mustache

It jumped and it jabbed to the door so I grabbed the shovel I keep in my sash.

I sprayed some febreeze, the Stache, dying with ease, was no match for the spade it met with a crash, and after I’d tooled a small coffin and ruled that some words were now due for the foolish, murderous...

It’s a curious thing, how the leaves fall, and how the fields flirt with the summer breeze. I sometimes sit and ponder if the world is more alive than I, more interesting and intricate. The complexities that all have to occur in tandem to create the stillness of an early autumn morning, or the power that comes with spring showers. “What being could command such wonders?” I think to myself, “One? O...