It's a long story . . . and it's a long, strange, trip.
If you are reading this, God Bless You.
I have chosen my confessions, trying to keep up.
Lke a hurt, lost, and blinded fool, trying to keep an eye on you.
Now I've said too much.
I don't need to cry away each lonely night.
PROSE WISHES IT WERE POETRY,
POETRY WISHES IT WERE MUSIC.
MUSIC SIMPLY WISHES.
AND ALL THE WHILE,
IT'S LOVE THAT FULFILLS.
Listen well, my children, and you will hear.
If you dare . . .
© 2026 by Roy B. Santonil
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