[metaslider id=850] It’s beautiful, no gauge for perfection, no scale of 1 to 10, It coulda been better, if I coulda seen it with you in the best years of my life. It’s still, beautiful.

Honest, that meaningless word left dangling before children, a damoclean sword held fast in a gordian knot tied with scarlet thread, finer than the spider’s that once tied men’s souls to an angry American God, birthed in Transylvania, over the woods, and through the dale, no lie There is a tale of lies told in…

The slide show kinda accidently goes with Mike’s poem. scrol down to see it. [metaslider id=793]