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Trevon Haywood Sep 2016
The plane leaves
fall black and wet
on the lawn;

the cloud sheaves
in heaven’s fields set
droop and are drawn

in falling seeds of rain;
the seed of heaven
on my face

falling — I hear again
like echoes even
that softly pace

heaven’s muffled floor,
the winds that tread
out all the grain

of tears, the store
harvested
in the sheaves of pain

caught up aloft:
the sheaves of dead
men that are slain

now winnowed soft
on the floor of heaven;
manna invisible

of all the pain
here to us given;
finely divisible
falling as rain.

Dora Marsden and Harriet Shaw Weaver. 9/26/2016.
Trevon Haywood Sep 2016
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

by Mary Elizabeth Frye. 9/12/2016.
Trevon Haywood Sep 2016
Depression is here everyday
And it never goes away
Go away! I yell into the dark
As if someone is there
I feel as if I'm a prisoner
In the dungeon's lair
And as always no one cares
Do I dare?
Dare to care about anyone but me?
Could it be,
Someone there?
Someone there to care?
No, just an image
That's the way it will always be
No matter how hard I try
I just want to get by
I go through life day by day,
I thought pain was supposed
To go away with time
But it's not
It's still here
Here with the fear
Fear that I will get hurt more.

Sarah Boston. 9/12/2016.
Trevon Haywood Sep 2016
Remember June’s long days,

and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew.

The nettles that methodically overgrow

the abandoned homesteads of exiles.

You must praise the mutilated world.

You watched the stylish yachts and ships;

one of them had a long trip ahead of it,

while salty oblivion awaited others.

You’ve seen the refugees heading nowhere,

you’ve heard the executioners sing joyfully.

You should praise the mutilated world.

Remember the moments when we were together

in a white room and the curtain fluttered.

Return in thought to the concert where music flared.

You gathered acorns in the park in autumn

and leaves eddied over the earth’s scars.

Praise the mutilated world

and the gray feather a thrush lost,

and the gentle light that strays and vanishes

and returns.

—Adam Zagajewski.
9/11/2016.
  Sep 2016 Trevon Haywood
Chloe Chapman
You are more than I will ever deserve

I wish you could see yourself through my eyes,
Or maybe it would scare you,
because every time I look at you,
No, every time I think of you,
My heart jumps, and my mind clouds,
Blood rushes to my face,
I can't breath and the world spins,
Like my brain has short circuited,
and I feel like my hair should stand on end,
and sparks should fly from my eyes.
Surely you have noticed the way I look at you,
How I can't draw my eyes away from you.
How suddenly the centre of my universe is you,
I am just a planet to your sun.

And when you look at me,
When you catch my eye, and smile,
I feel like I have been pumped full of helium,
I feel like I could blow away with the lightest breath of air,
Like I would shatter into a million pieces with just a touch.
Oh, and how I crave your touch!
Your hand on my arm, my head on your heart.
Your gravity is irresistible,
All I want is to be near you.

Is it wrong?
The way I feel?
What would you do if I told you?
I do not know, and I cannot take the risk,
For if I were to loose you,
I would become nothing.
Everything I am too afraid to tell you
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