I am in love with Autumn
(a scandalous affair, really),
Because, you see, Autumn
Is married to old man Winter.

Autumn, ever elegant, dons
Her best calico raiment
And dances and whirls
Across the mountains,
Shimmering orange, yellow, red.
The entire world bountiful underfoot.

Even the heavens are in love with her,
Giving her cobalt skies.
Kissing her lips with sunshine,
And caressing her cheeks with rain.

Her mouth a radiant sliver of the moon,
Teeth glinting like the stars above.
Life is her joy and so she dances
Before her jealous husband
Can secret her away.

The wind catches her hair,
Wishing it's turn to dance with her.
But, just for a season,
It's my turn.

Sunborn scales of the Imperial Dragon
  
     whose body is entwined in a purple cloud.

               His feathered tail whips around with vibrant colours as it

   is  like the peacock's beloved eye of the Emerald Seas.
  
With coiling whiskers of fiery carnelians

              and eyes born of liquid sunrise
                  
                    whose roar rattles the sky and cracks the Pearl Moons

           and out pours the Virtues of Harmony, wingless dragons

who dance to the music of the Heavens and it rains silver feathers,

            wind-beaten. Sweet, soft, feathery wishes that perch on my

                    shoulders that brings me tranquil seas.

Depression is art
The kind few actually understand
It's poetry is embodied in the paint
That covers the artist's hands.
And the canvas drips words
That fill up the empty space
With colors of black and blue
To fill up the feeling of grey
Within the emptiness
Of the corners of the artist's heart.
But the design isn't yet finished
The last stroke waiting to breathe
On the canvas to complete it
Before the world can see.
Slices of red added to the portrait
And specks of tears too
To complete the last touch
Of the masterpiece for you.
...
But you know what they say
Most art isn't understood
And the poetry behind it all
Is lost in the colors too.
For you would only know
If you knew this:
That the art was her soul
But the canvas was her **skin

As I walk through the graveled paths
When the stinging stones speak to me
Of the pain ****** on trampling feet
I see you in the unlit alleys of my memory

As the wind blows from a covert hide out
Twisting and shaking the branches of trees
Causing them to break and fly off the trunk
I see you in the torn pages of my life’s tome

As I listen to the song of lone birds
And their doleful notes fall in my ears
I am jolted out of my bohemian ways
And feel a plaintive tone floating to me

Wandering along the sprawling beach
As I hear the roar of waves
And when a humdrum of voices fills me
I hear your voice distinct like the beat of my heart

Like the pain at a needle point that shall always be
Like an intruder nudging to steal the inner space
Like the small tremors after a fateful seismic quake
I now know that in me you stay like sleeping fury

Even when I walked away from you
You stubbornly stuck to me
Like a leech tenaciously clinging to the skin
Oh! How hard I struggle to get you off!