Beside a quiet pond
On the country side
Bird of blue and gray
Spoke three tongues
Told truths, never lied
An indifferent sort of way

It sat there still, in quiet
And thought deeply
Asking why it must roam
The pond spoke to it
And it sang so sweetly
About this unknown

.
Soothing winds from the north
spread neatly across the world.
Bringing chills and ice and quiet,
hailing the arrival of the Winter Girl.

Her sire, Jack Frost, so proud.
Her mother, the Moon, is waiting.
Her silver white hair grows wild,
a testament to their Spring mating.

Her eyes sparkle and smile,
orbs riding on a golden tide.
Her head bows with mute consent
like a first time blushing bride.

And her entrance is most stately,
announced with a carpet of snow.
The Winter Girl is birthed anew
as northern winds begin to blow.


© Pagan Paul (2015/16/17)

My Poetry brings all the readers to my ink  
and there like
mines better than yours,
linguistically its better than yours.
I can verse for you?
but there is a charge.

I know you want it,
the syllables conjoined, making them read mine not yours.
Their lost in my metaphor,
ways I lock them within my harmonious chorus.


words are like milkshake
different tastes imbued within

aromas differ


My Poetry brings all the thoughts to my page, 
and there like,
mines better than yours.
Structurally its better than yours,
I can word for you?
but there is a charge.

I know you want it,
the morphology, making them read mine not your.
Their lost within my visual acuity,
ways I lock them within my syllable verse.

aromas differ
different tastes imbued within

words are like milkshake

Welcome to my ink-shake,
its like a taste that others will like,
woven in thought.
But my ink maybe not to your liking,
my tastes differing from yours.
But enjoy what I pen hopefully I'll enjoy yours

blood droplets linger
a body crumpled beneath

footsteps up the stairs