Once dense thicket, coppiced
To bear a cornucopia filled with
Indian’s Summer rare blood moon.

The All-Hallows summer extends
As Samhain comes closer
Recognizing, celebrating the ever coming.

Wide leaves writhing and crunching from
Deciduous oaks as they bare to nothing.
Crushed grass and brush uncover a
Light trail leading to preserved boscage.

Through the dense brush
Untouched water thickens  
From frosty moons bite.

Seizing gossamers flight
The soft breeze harshens
For long nights moon is soon near.

Waves circulate,
controlling the air consumed.
A deathly concoction;
sweet yellow roses
sharp silver chained.
Aroma of overwhelming necessity.
Primitive act of the aging anatomy.
The ticks drop to the floor,
numbers join the invisible waves.
No end to the craves eating away
deteriorating.
Comfort will not be found
until the race against the numbers seize.
Yet a single feather consoles
the melting mass.
Soon, a pillow found
with love near
a deep slumber shall be slept.

A dire need a desperate fix,
for the aching in my chest.
Fingers crack and tap away the urges,
that will never rest.
White crisp waves inside me settle to calm waters
when I write
what I cannot articulate
in direct language.
A picture I see, one that I can paint with words
letting you into my soul.
Keys and pens
screens and paper
are my weapons
against the killer
called the norm.

Each puff infuses poison and serenity.
Clouds drift off, combine with the air.
Slowly burring away years off time.
Disgust or desire,
The distant smell of the once infamous beauty.
The cancer stick, the deathly hits.
The denial of mortality caused from deadly attraction.
A single hit they say will dig you a grave,
But what’s the point if you will get one anyways.
A torch of liberty.
For the ones who find peace,
Within each calming puff.

She sees the world in vibrant colors
Shades that will never be discovered
It is a different world for this woman.
Everything is flowers.
When she opens her eyes nothing is covered.
However no one can see what she sees.
No one can have her perspective;
And no one will see though her eyes,
Into her heart,
Inside her soul.
Her ears are quite different;
They hear pain and hate
It is a different world from what she hears and sees.
Her heart above all is filled with hate and love.
She hates the world, but she cannot hate any individual.
She knows what it is like to be hated
And pushed down so insensitively.
So she loves
But that love has yet to be returned.
Her mind is filled with the sight of beauty,
The sound of hate,
And emotions with no range.
Because of this
She will never be understood,
Never loved,
And never accepted as who she is.
So, the mask goes on
Hiding all of these,
“flaws”.

It is the simplest of joys that woe the most
The short wave, the brief hello
That can bring a smile to the darkest day.
As the simple joys grow to hugs and conversations,
The sorrow is lightened.

The dark cloud
Remembrance of shame
That once hovered over
And blocked these simple joys.
Will forever dim these joys.

A light can shine though these clouds
Can bring hope to the lost.
All that is needed
Is the acceptance of these simple joys.