My quill set for the page,

Yet my mind’s eye is upstaged,

Betwixt them sits a wall,

But here no war shall be waged,



I search for beauty and pathos,

Yet my aperture gathers only stone,

If the barrier were to give itself kudos,

For having left my page all alone



But to think of the possibility,

That the wall itself but not a writer,

That the curvature of the laden brick,

Creates a paradox of the block.

Am I dead?

Dancing in the moonlight, I sang a soothing song. You laughed.

I live.

Clouds come in on puffy fluffs. You float away.

Until the morning tide.

Waters suffocate me. Your hand on my mouth, pressing down so my parents can't hear. Lights dance inside my eyes as I press my legs together.

It's  too late. You impress me. Your seed has penetrated my womb and the child is born.

There's blood on my white pillow case. Shards of brick in my hair. A brick, broken in half on the floor.

My head is pounding, aching, throbbing.

My heart. Oh, my heart! It is dying.

You are beautiful
Like the spring time
Your scent a floral breeze

In anger like the summer
Your hurtful words blazing
Burn the heart of me

At times you are autumn
Your eyes reflecting calmness
Full of wisdom and peace

But mostly you are winter
Quiet, cold, and distant
A frozen land, that's lost to me