the creation of a monster
it rose in the summer;
and towered above tree tops.
a roar echoed in the village.
and now nothing is there.

I am writing these poems
From inside a lion,
And it's rather dark in here.
So please excuse the handwriting
Which may not be too clear.
But this afternoon by the lion's cage
I'm afraid I got too near.
And I'm writing these lines
From inside a lion,
And it's rather dark in here.

Sometimes a miraculous thing happens.

The body ages,
And the skin crinkles like an old plastic bag.
And even though the body fades, the soul still fights on.
And the soul comes through the eyes.
And the most crinkled, faded old people will have the deepest eyes. Sometimes deeper than any others. Their soul comes through their eyes and draws everything in.
They glow with a brilliance earned over many years,
And even though the body withers, the eyes stay bright.

As the Sun exclaims
farewell to the earth,
at beautiful crepuscule
is when true
animals come
out and decide
To feed on the
Emotions left
behind in forms
of golden yellows
and deep, bright
reds, which
light up the sky
like paintbrush
strokes, but fade
away so soon.