Marigolds tremble,
burnt orange flames in the breeze,
sun sheds golden strands.
Ladybird on fragile wings,
rides waves of autumn's sorrow.

Leaves curl, whispering,
the earth sighs with each ripple.
Daylight wanes, fades slow.
Contraction of waves unseen,
a soft grief hums through the air.

I am Lost

My soul resonates
with the prettiest and darkest things.
I feel and hurt
and live and rejoice
and die and hate
and forgive.
I do it all
in a whirlwind of emotions so no wonder.
No wonder
I don’t know what’s forward or backwards or even what to say
Or do next.
I am so lost.

Too far to see the death of dusk.
Too close
To feel the birth of dawn.
My heavier self knows itself
Far better
Than my lighter self.

Weight, in its multitudes,
Is one way of recognizing one's existence
Yet, in that burden,
So does the sorrow of its influence.
The weight of being,
The weight of loving,
Of regret,

Is both a realization and
A defining characteristic
Of one's self (if one is interested in such things)
Showing how true our wings,
Or lack thereof, are eternally clipped until
God decides whether we deserve them
                                                                     or not.