Soft as silver and just as bright,
the waters glowed briefly but brightly in the night
A lone child sat by the river,
body pressed still, barely suppressing a shiver.
Clothing too thin on a body too frail,
cold winds and winter tidings turned his skin ghastly pale.
The waters flew gently on a bird's hidden wing
- flying downstream as moonlight off the surface would sing.
Silent and unbidden save for the gentle flow of the spring,
The dark forest a mystery, foreshadowing a tomb.
The lily still, was the only thing left in bloom.
Amid a forest of bare trees and darkness, it stood a lone sentinel against the gloom
Delicately nestled in a thicket of thorns.
It stood alone against winter's arsenal of storms.

Life is tragic, as death is grim
The finer points of morality, all paths lead to sin
Life is fire, hot and bright
Death is brighter, for darkness eats light

She hates me
With a fire so bright it hurts
She hates me
Her mouth curls and twitches in spurts
She watches me
Eyes like anvils, sinking into my soul
She sees me
Betraying all the compassion of a hot coal
She wants me
Dead upon her floor
She needs me
To bleed like others that came before

The sky is a sea of ashes
An enigma of flame
Red orange light clashes
With the blackness in its frame

The air is brittle, its essence is dry
Like the smoke off a fire
Whose embers are about to die

Silence is not keeping quiet
because you have nothing
to say...

Silence is having a lot
to say but no desire
to speak...

There once was a mime
Who committed a crime
He spoke just one time

But people out for a walk
They heard him talk
Down by the corn stalk

Then the mayor said
We will make him dead
Off with his head

He ran as fast as he could
The mime knew he would
Be killed if he should

He came across a fairy
Her name was Little Mary
She smelt of strawberry

Silently, he started to cry
The fairy wondered why
People wanted him to die

She took his hand
But he could understand
It was time for another land

The mime was never found
For he lives under the ground
Where he never makes a sound

maybe it was just bad timing
maybe 10 years from now,
we'll meet again in one of the most cliché ways.
maybe I'll be sitting on one end of a coffee shop
and you'll be sitting at the other
and I'll be drinking coffee
and you'll be drinking anything that keeps your eyes open.
I'll see you but pretend I didn't,
I'll take the napkin that was once sitting under my coffee and place it in front of me,
I won't write down my number.
I'll write about how my coffee matches your eyes,
dark brown coffee sweetened with a little too much sugar.
I'll write about the last time I saw you,
and how you said you'd never grow any ****** hair
but now you have stubbles resembling cinnamon bun crumbs swept across your face.
Maybe, just maybe, I'll look up from my napkin, and see you looking at me.
Maybe I'll see you looking at me the way Gatsby looked at Daisy.
Or maybe you won't look at me at all.
Maybe I'll just crumple up this napkin and throw it away.
(But I kind of hope I meet you at the garbage can, seeing you throw away a crumpled coffee shop napkin with scribbles all over the back.)

R    R    R
O  O  O
  P  P  P
   EEE
   Our
  Tiny
Hands
  Would
    Grasp
       The
     Colorful
      Intertwined
         Threads as
           It keeps us
            All together.
               Our small frail
                 Faces grow and
                   The rope now fades
                      To brown becoming
                        Strength and freedom
                          Scaling mountains tall
                              And high. The rope
                              Is now saving the life
                               Of the man who slips
                                Or falls. It's amazing
                               How this small dusty
                               Rope, the one sitting
                                Thrown in the corner
                             The one that saves that
                        Mans life when tied
                    Into a circle loses the
                Meaning of life. It now
             Becomes a noose to
             Escape from your
          Dark days. That
      Same lifeline
  Now an end
To life. Now
Take that
Rope and
Twirl it high
Above your
Head watch
It become a
Game, and a
   Challenge full
     Of fun rope the
       Cows and grab your
         Friends which this rope
           Let's you catch. Now add
             A second circle and the
                Cowboy tool becomes a
                   Bow to tie your loves
                     Precious gift and teach
                       A child to work their shoe
                          Change the bow into a
                           Knot and it becomes
                         Your undoing, tying you
                     Back holding your hands
                  As you struggle with
               Your strenghth. It's
           Amazing how a
      worthless string
Of twisted twine
Becomes our
Entire lives
Saving them
Holding them
  Tying them
    Ending them
      Cheering them
        And keeping them
         To some it is a
    Collection of strings
Twisted to form a
Strong enough
Rope. To me
They are the
Strings of life
Put together to
Form our
stories
  R R R
O  O  O
P   P    P
E   E     E

I make a point of wearing silver instead of gold when I can
Because gold is first place
Everyone wants to be golden
So many poets agree sunset and dawn
Are the most beautiful times of day
Both of which are golden
But I disagree
Nighttime has its own peculiar but enchanting charm
With its crowning jewel, the silver moon.
To me, it is agony like no other that surpasses not placing at all
To be placed second
To have come so close
Yet fall just one place short
And watch as the Golden one
Outshines you, the Silver.
As a tribute to the unspoken grievers
The Silvers with their quiet beauty like the darkness
Just before dawn, yet unloved for they fell short
I wear silver.
For the Silver Seconds.

Please repost if you are a Silver too
Comment please! I love to read interpretations of my work.

This house made of brick and stone,
glass and wood,
now crumbles to the earth beneath me.
But this house was empty
long before it was gone.

The people inside,
the people
the people
the monsters,

They ripped open their lungs
and filled themselves with smoke.
They  ripped open their veins
and filled themselves with poison.
They grew sickly and cold
with black, sunken eyes.
They starved themselves to the bone
until that was all they were.
Feet shuffled against dark-stained hardwood floors,
yet they never touched the ground.

Ghosts.
Ghosts who couldn't sleep,
for the darkness was no longer home.
Ghosts who couldn't breathe,
for all they inhaled was smoke.
Ghosts who screamed.
Ghosts who cried.
Ghosts who never made a sound.

Holding on until fingers grew limp.
This house was empty
long before it was gone.