The first sorrow of autumn
Is the slow goodbye
Of the garden who stands so long in the evening-
A brown poppy head,
The stalk of a lily,
And still cannot go.

The second sorrow
Is the empty feet
Of a pheasant who hangs from a hook with his brothers.
The woodland of gold
Is folded in feathers
With its head in a bag.

And the third sorrow
Is the slow goodbye
Of the sun who has gathered the birds and who gathers
The minutes of evening,
The golden and holy
Ground of the picture.

The fourth sorrow
Is the pond gone black
Ruined and sunken the city of water-
The beetle's palace,
The catacombs
Of the dragonfly.

And the fifth sorrow
Is the slow goodbye
Of the woodland that quietly breaks up its camp.
One day it's gone.
It has only left litter-
Firewood, tentpoles.

And the sixth sorrow
Is the fox's sorrow
The joy of the huntsman, the joy of the hounds,
The hooves that pound
Till earth closes her ear
To the fox's prayer.

And the seventh sorrow
Is the slow goodbye
Of the face with its wrinkles that looks through the window
As the year packs up
Like a tatty fairground
That came for the children.

It could have been an indie flick,
The kind that makes those hipsters tick.
Her eyes, that look…
The way I shook.
Like something out of a cult loved book.
Smell of roses,
She walked right by.
I should have done more than catch her eye.

Let me burn on the love drenched piers of your soul,
Let the ether from your burning heart fill me of your musk,
And let it last till the longing fades, until the moment we are one.

The lady,
She is wise,
Rosy,
Complies,
Cosy,
But good god,
The lady is dozy.

She eats with her hands,
Her humour is bland,
Her laughter is canned,
Her emotion is ham.

Excuse me

The lady,
She is neat,
Friendly,
Meek,
Heady,
But my lord,
The woman's deadly.

She tends to ride side saddle,
Floats without a paddle,
She often will straddle
All that will addle.

But alas,

Though the lady has dangers,
Needs warning of strangers,
The lady has conquered,
The art of my heart.

I envy his red lips,
His sharp hips.

I envy his warm brown eyes,
His breathing making his chest rise.

I envy his peaceful melancholy mind,
His soft words covered by rind.

I envy the light he leaks,
The elixir he speaks.

I envy his flushed cheeks,
The way I become speechless for weeks.

And even though I’m ripped apart,
He is my mind, he is my soul, and he is my heart.

I found my mind in the eye of a cigarette
The thing that I curse and despise, the cigarette
The thing that controls my life, the cigarette
I lost my freedom in the eye of a cigarette

Every day has a victor.
whether or not the victor of days past has been you is irrelevant now
because i have seen it.
today is yours.

nobody else knows it yet,
because you have to show them.
you must fight for your victories, as with everything else
and you have a reason to
because today is yours.

they will try to take it from you
you will be oppressed with the mundane
but look to the horizon and see your crest
flying atop the banner of the sunset.

forget your undoing. you are invincible.
fight for it. thirst for it.
i can see it in you.
this day is yours.

when Death calls
at the casements of this mortal home
he’ll not scythe my soul
into the black unknown -
No!
with feathered feet
and honey-breath
will dance my lucent Lord of Death
i’ll breathe - aaah! -
in bright and velvet arms
here you are
my Prince
at last

Have you ever felt bottomless?
Empty?
A void never ending?
Black as night without the promise of morning?
How about devoid, emotionally dry?
The dark gap that reaches inside,
******* away your feelings?
Leaving you without pain, and without joy?
How ravenous that darkness; how gluttonous that hole.
Doomed to feed until it dies and forever leaves my soul.