Alight the sun and moon are in the skies,
Attending to the passing of the great.
A burning light will leave our twinkling eyes,
With passing time, we reach the dreaded date.
And though the lights are here, the sky is dim,
The premature pathetic fallacy,
Even nature herself cannot hold in,
The blinding sorrow she too feels for thee.
And though with sadness we anticipate
Departure of a kind and bubbly friend,
We shan't forget to say, before it's late,
Goodbye, good luck, we're with you 'till the end.
And don't forget your trendy, cool nature,
Or joyful outlook which makes you so pure.

As I was standing in the rain and snow,
A striking ray of sunshine split the sky,
And spilled on me its golden honey glow,
The shining star that caught my fading eye,
And as the shadowed grey parted within,
Excluded by the incandescent light,
The brilliant and captivating grin,
Spread all across the sky to paint it bright.
As I am standing in the pelt and pour,
This blanket grey above shut out what shone,
The ghost of warmth I felt, I still feel more,
Though gentle glow I loved once now is gone.
I wait, for still my spirit does not wane,
Nor hope that I will see my sun again.

Five o'clock shower;
Perhaps, it's a bit early,
But, better than none.

Am I up early,
Or am I merely up late?
This, time will not tell.

Maybe, just one day,
I'll open my mouth, and,
not ruin it all.

Sixteen lines of mediocre prose,
arranged neatly, into four stanzas,
simply because that is the way they are,
not for any purpose.

But here, see how he struggles!
To fit these messages, semi-coherent,
into his own restricting rhythm,
the format of the green-horned fool.

But, once again, he mimics himself;
on purpose, he thinks, to be clever,
but nothing positive is written.
Perhaps I'm just a hypocrite.

It is man's greatest enemy, who'd criticize him before any other,
where others saw no fault; who'd raise a hand to him, take his life, only
when he felt lower than ever; and his greatest ally,
who'd pick him up to carry onward, where all others
would surely fail.

Middle-class, educated, better than all of you. The poet
whines that the people he said were his friends
were his friends. Too eager to stick it to the man, his sentences end
where he pleases.

Not understanding, as his peers are hurt when insulted,
he blames the age to which he was born
of his troubles. He should have been born in the fifties.
Absolutely nothing was wrong with the fifties.

Love is not a safe place. It is not the taste of their name
coughed by the cancerous lung, drowning in overused metaphors.
A lover is not a tool, to take you in and give you everything
they have, to spew a 'better' person next year.

Death is not the endless peace, nor the bliss,
nor the torture nor infinite void. It is the end, no matter
how artistically short you write each line,
and none of it mattered.

Illusions of age
Won't you share your A/S/L?
Open ***** now, please?

Pen to paper, the ink soaks. Dead.
Scratching assaults the ears; curse their successes,
To the back of the mind a lone idea regresses.
Assessment. Assessing? My political skills?
A half-formed venting, though calms.
I shift in my chair.

Every detail grotesque, I shift my attention
To the blank face of my enemy and my saviour.
It must have been ten minutes. Twenty? No, two.
Dragging and dragging, yet engraining in my mind.
My kingdom for distraction.
I push back my chair, and sleep.