Cold the air in morning rain,
Dull the grass and houses plain,
Branches sway in trees so bare,
Little does the world so care.
Clouded gray so clouds go by,
Flowers hide with lonely cries,
Dandelions in frozen earth,
Wait for spring and for their birth.
Snow like slush upon our eyes,
Melts so ***** with no disguise,
Water frozen on ponds so lost,
Winter takes a heavy cost.
Dandelions soon will grace,
With color bright upon this place,
While heat and time renew the earth,
The pretty weeds will prove their worth.

It sways and flickers
away. Like a wren.
The flame stains the glass
and reflects fully
the inconsistency.
Casts shadows
on the wall
Frightful swirls.
Turns wax to syrup
Sweet, seduced I want to swallow it
Feel the liquid fire scald my throat.
I shouldn't be allowed to have candles.

Sometimes, as I lie in bed
I awake to the screaming
Of some tortured soul
Lamenting his current existence
In the ruin of hopes
In the ruined city of man

Sometimes I even awake
From the seductive dream
That this misanthropic howl
Is not my own heart
Yearning to sing its sorrow
In the way given to man

On a night like any other
What a sham it was to think,
As if my belly had changed address
That I’d settle for just one drink.
The bottle’s neck was all I did need
But my neck I did not heed.
Before the taste had left my lip
The bottle it did tip, surely just one more sip.

Since that very first compromise
A fog has thickened in my eyes.
I’m now mad at the wall and ready to brawl
With any fella I so choose to despise.
I’m a rooster tonight, with every cause to fight,
And every last hen in town is a ten.
So I’ll swoon every one, won’t stop till I’m done
Wake up drunk enough to do it again

But first, a trip to the loo
Hell bound for the toilette
So, on the no-one-near I don’t spew
Clearing this foul gullet.

A hermit I did find
A hermit with a hermit’s plan
Of hermit notions and hermit mind
I will recall for you what I can
Your attention is repayment in-kind
Let me introduce, this hermit hearted man

This jester void of rhythm and rhyme
This hallowed-out hermit friend
Bespoke like a rigid and reclusive mime
Who knew not how to pretend
That he did not fear the time
To him allotted, with only himself to tend

A peculiar host was he
And what I found peculiar most
Was his strange anxiety
That he wore like a scar, almost
A scathing scar, I could see
The sort you burry, not boast

It wasn’t a visible scar
On this hermit’s healthy cheek
That one could see from near or afar
But it wounded and rendered him weak
A scar on his soul, untended, ajar
That left this hermit too strained to speak

If I were to write a life-long poem
A line every day, so to put on display
The simple happenings of life
To weave verses together, an enduring tether
Of all life’s joys and strife
Would it have rhythm and beat? Skip and repeat?
Or would it just flow easy and free?
Would it charm or would it harm, this rhythmic yarn
That weaves the fabric of me?
Would this rhyme be a bildungsroman?
Charting progress, growth and learning?
Or would it compel, by whom it was written
To not publish but set it to burning?
Lumps and bumps, and dreary spells
Momentary lameness and drought
Every epic has its lows, as any writer knows
‘Tis what life is all about
Would it conclude with pride and nothing to hide
Confident and self-esteemed?
Would it spell to its reader, whoever at all
The tale of life lived and not dreamed?