The birds have forgotten to fly
And our shadows stand resolute
Unwilling to go with the night
Our children have long forgotten the language of laughter
For the wax fluently in the dialect of tears
Who will be the referee between
The hungry spirits and angry shadows
For the sword must be drawn from its sheath
Or else, we become breathing corpses.
Everyone thinks I just adore hats, but the secret is I only wear hats that can be a Hatmit. What is a Hatmit, you say? It originally sat on my shelf branded for someone's grandpa to wear- I've been to
“Oh, dear,” my mother-in-law says in a concerned voice. She is reading County Down local news on her I-pad. “What is it?” I ask. “There was a man found dead in his house. They say that judging by the
