I swirl the loose skin
of my forehead like the swirls
of stars, in weariness of the world.
My lashes beaded with drops,
from the shower that I was to tired
to dry, blur my vision like the floating boat clouds which blur
the moon to a
wisp
of smoke.
I lie, wet in my towel uncaring that
my body is forming a silhouette
of shadowed dampness on
my bed.

Golden calm flows through me as the glittered dragonfly's frame and fairy wings buzz over pooled Monet oil.

I just heard something-
Like a snake in the wall
A hiss then a thump.
I wonder if it was a rat
I thought they were dead.
I wish they were dead.
I'm so sick of constant
fear of my house, the
anxiety of the grisly 
undercurrent,
running through
the walls and making
The floor shake.
I'm sick of the thudding
under my ribs which
painfully quickens
as I stare out the
black, transparent windows
from the lit utility room
into the darkness beyond.
I hate how exposed I am there.
I'm sick of the chairs in the
the loft which, when you
are not there, softly roll.
Or the printer screetching
A print even though no one is
There to print!
I'm terrified of your ashes
sitting silently above me.
Maybe it's me though
And not this house.
Perhaps I am
just paranoid.

Autumn trudgings lurk the air
Searching for a soul to bare
Their weight upon, so heavy
They break from trees in heady
Harmony, brown and sog
Yet crisp in the fog
mist mornings which creep
Into road as an early sun peeps
Above our golden horizon folding into
Faded merry-go- round and blue.
Autumn days are fairly sad
As you wait for dormant trees to sag
And groan
As their coverlets are blown
Onto the soft down
Of concrete frown.
These are the autumn days to me
Brown, melancholy, mahogany.

Tightly curled
leaves gracefully unfurl from their
grey cocoons into beautiful pastel shaded lime.
It's a surprise when used to 
the barren, pre-spring wilderness
to be ****** into the flourish
of fertility.

Sickly sensuous, the tree's burning branches twisting towards the frosted eternal ceiling, sunken hollows and curved swings are fragilely bound by frayed roots which grow by day under cheerful sundials reflecting the sky's chiffon ripples.
Joining the trees bowing branches were spidery threads scalloped between the mosaic webbings of wooden latticework; 
The odd turtle dove getting caught momentairily in the silver embroidery and cooing in alarm, before cooling under the star-shine.
Amorphous, brushed clouds rolled in rhetorical significance unknowing of what power the wind holds,
whilst black sac ravens drifted aimlessly down the purple road like the dry tumbleweed.

The leaf frays under chaste
turpentine which fractures
it's skeleton and tumbles
to bed whilst
raining silver strikes
air raids to the wind and fires
the sirened sun
who was soaking asleep 
in a bath of roses as the moon blossom glided down the slippery *****.