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 Sep 2015 beenseen
vf
smelling like dryer sheets, i stepped out
to a crisp fall morning.

a Southern fall doesn't start until October,
but something was rushing the chill on to us
saying "bundle up now, and cover
those goosebumps"

i haven't heard from you in a week
and i wonder if the Jewish New Year will be good
to me. i
clamber through my day, like
a child's first time at a rock wall.

at the top, i scream to come down
but they told me i had to jump,
so i didn't move
 Sep 2015 beenseen
GaryFairy
it's getting scarier by the HOUR
OUR world will never see PEACE
PIECE by piece we're overpowered
overpowering us as our fears increase

we sit idle as hatred BREWS
BRUISED by the war torn SCENE
SEEN as only pawns to lose
losing all of our hopes and dreams
i capitalized the homophones for beginning writers, who may not know what a homophone is
some seek art in sidewalk cracks
or between fragile spines of old books
and some search for meaning
through the gaps between the oak trees
where solitude exists and melts
together with the prismatic hues of
every sunset fading into memory

some find purpose in silence
or rather, the center of bustling conversation
and some find beauty in the enigma of the ocean
and the shy touch of the sun, warm,
like butter coating our lonely souls

everyone but her,
she never had to search, for her masterpiece
was herself.
her love was made of notes strung together
and played colorfully, radiating through the air
as smooth as mother's finest silk, and
with every beat, she painted the most beautiful
of images, dancing along to the hum of her heart
that never understood the meaning of silence

and her paradise meant being blinded
by stage lights and pride, each song
a testament built by bones
that taught themselves how to bend
but remain vigilant,
because breaking was never an option
in her pink-ribboned world of piercing perfection

but they will continue to search for happiness
in howling wind and steady rain,
never bothering to find her smile
fluttering effortlessly in the music,
that smile- the one that could put
the world's most beautiful dance
to shame
Tattered and torn,
Old, and quite worn.
She lives in the street,
No shoes on her feet.

They call her "Old Hag",
Her clothes, but a rag.
Children throw stones,
Never leave her alone.

But somehow she thrives,
Lest her will to survive.
Despite her poor health,
And absence of wealth.

She sleeps where she's able,
Park benches, old tables,
Eats food from trash cans,
Her bathroom-- A bedpan.

Seeks shelter from rain,
Most often in vain.
Finds warmth in the winter,
From restaurant air-venters.

She smiles at the sun,
Gives birds half her crumbs,
Has only three teeth,
To chew what she eats.

And each night she does pray,
To see a new day.
Before she closes her eyes,
And quietly dies...
SJ Sinister
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