the dead leaves seem alive
in the shifting shadows of the overhanging branch
attached to its grim wood
a plastic bag wavers in the pattern of breeze
its slow swinging reveals its contending fears
a hanged man still bearing his deck of marked cards
a devilish grin painted with childlike hand on his
grey and drawn face
he seems to speak
you await his words
but like the leaves it is only the
shifting shadows here that are alive
and they have intents of their own
fever grips my hand
leads my pen astray with clowns of satire
and proletarians of ridged senseless order
i shall feast here on these spent moments
like the miser fondling his coin
and let the hanged man be
his own abuser
i am the root of my own evils
and have no desire to live with his

Forgiveness is the heady scented perfume from a flower when you crush her under foot
She knows you didn't mean it, she knows you didnt look

A few short hours ago she was there
Felt her precence there, smelt her perfume so sweet
Her sweetness had filled the air
She had made an entrance
Her presence was revealed

She's now battered bent and torn
But her memory still lingers on
As her bright colours start to fade
Her sweet perfume still fills the sunlit glade

Although she's long dead now and gone
She has also stayed alive
Because the seeds she had inside
Were scattered far and wide

Next spring she will again appear
To the delight of hummingbird and woodland bee
To stand in her full glory, for all the world to see

The most elegantly glimpsed aptness of blue,
So colorfully unique in it's intending,
Of the brightest pastels found inside the Louvre,
In the depth of the sky in it's ever mending.

A cascading stain above as the dawn breaks,
A changing shade away from night brings a warming tone,
The vastness of profundity only seen in Great lakes,  
These dripping streams of patiences are not yet overblown.

A color we bleed when we need a companion,
The tint we see in oceans at the eye's length,
And fills the sky on the most stunning day in the Grand Canyon,
The deepest blues are seen in weakness and less in strength.

A chagrining emotional torrent coursing to a commotion,
Water flies above as airy type materialization,
Seeing spirits crushed by the weight of a winter squall Atlantic ocean.
But reveals a illusive blue when in a frozen glaciation,

The most beautiful blue is so intrinsic,
Like the inner part of the flame burning insistent,
But with far more life that is so simplistic,
Whereas my life without blue is nonexistent.

The day that you made me, planned with such care,
the greatest moment, you could see in my stare.
I was not so varied, so different from the rest,
but the love that you gave me, would make me the best.

Year after year always so loved, always in your highest grace,
sometimes it seemed over my own blood, but this was not the case.
For you loved us all equally, and always so meekly,
the only difference was, you loved me uniquely.  

Fathers always think of passing aspects on, while mothers rarely do,
but the only person I will really carry on, is only you.
Always my friend, not a secret we keep,
my closet is your closet, and those bones never speak.

I wish that I could say, you taught me everything I know,
however, the best lesson you gave me, you taught me how to grow.
The greatest words you gave to me, "do what makes you happy",
and living by this expression, I am never lacking.

My heart is not the biggest though many would disagree,
you're the reason I'm so gentle and loving as can be.
There are no real words that capture, the feelings I aim to relay,
but I write my thoughts down anyway, and hope it makes your day!

I love you momma...

I.
So long are the thoughts of someone so beautiful
pulled in by a vision of body and mind so young
chasing inspiration to steal the gaze of a woman
like a fire that burns so to a heart seated in passion
and even harder to fight the warmth of attraction,
yet a gentlemen waits until he is given the pleasure.
II.
In a moment, one can see his eyes filled with pleasure
given a glow whilst reflecting something beautiful.
She never shies away from the design of his attraction,
hard to build a foundation on a ground yet so young.
Yet there is no limit, even one such as age, to limit passion,
rarely does time measure wisdom between a girl or a woman.
III.
His pheromones work magic to his beating heart for a woman.
She seeks to be the resting of his desires that fulfill his pleasure.
There is a slow creeping thought that feelings are merely passion,
and there is little but a burning lust rather than something beautiful.
Harder are the connections with the ones who venture young,
but an old soul has the experiences that altered fates attraction
IV.
There are those who walk away from such an attraction
Envisioning a different path with an older woman
Seeing little to gain mentally from a person fairly young
Never realizing that her mind was always his pleasure
Not just intellect, but thoughts that were oh so beautiful,
With words that reflect such a bright heart of passion.
V.
No matter resistances or distances, their connection is their passion.
They write to impress one another, flirting to increase the attraction.
Displaying their hearts for each other in writings so beautiful,
many poems composed for and because of, a certain woman.
Never by touch but a pen evoking feelings with written pleasure,
sharing in a cryptic way the hidden feeling from when young.
VI.
Still one cannot find the power to resistant a flower, young.
Merely looking for a fuel to fire our deepest passion,
never forgetting the strength of giving pleasure.
Baring his shyness to show complicated attraction,
in the pursuit of a hope that she is no ordinary woman.
Like hoping on a sunrise, but knowing it will be beautiful.
VII.
Intricate is the passion in the face of his attraction.
So too is the zeal of the wanting young woman.
Still the greatest pleasure is that she is beautiful.