Stephen Gregory Biography

Limp little plant, almost a bud
Simple petal, soft not bright
Will beauty live
Survive the night
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All the looks, the way you feel
The eyes that fall, the hands that will
The touch that won’t
A back, a chin
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What happens to?
Those sleep filed nights
That stops before the dawn
On mornings of that day…
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He got to be bi-polar, schizoid or something
Living on the street that way
Connecticut, near the circle, his beat
Neither forlorn, nor left alone long
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go back...you say
to good 'ole days'
'ole boys' and fools repeat
ad infinite, it seems
...