Summer's warm currents retreat
the advancing brisk amber sunsets.

Submerging the world under
the reign of enduring starry nights.

The maples blush as Autumn whispers
the gentle lullaby of Winter's sweet breath.

Erasing Summer's memory with a crimson brush
preparing the golden landscape's long frigid rest.

~~~

It's funny how
I cannot seem
to find a care
or worry
in the world
as soon as
the sound of
your lighthearted laughter,
your gleeful giggling
reverberates against
my eardrums,
implanting all of its
melodious magic
deep within my soul.

Collection of characteristics
that the outside world
deems desirable:
empathy,
gentleness,
sensitivity,
the ability to love
deeply, madly.

Yet,
from where I stand,
the view is bleak,
for having a heart that
is big
means that it is
a hundred times more likely
to be punctured.

I wonder
how many times
my soul can
take these blows
before it withers
into
nothingness.

My body aches
of a perceived emptiness
that is
grossly
full of
an echoing,
resounding compilation
of disappointment,
anger,
and despair;
and though I am sad
in the free flowing of
my own bitter words,
I breathe in a jagged breath,
heave a large sigh,
and succumb to my
self-induced
anesthesia
as my big heart
is transplanted
with some smaller,
colder *****
that is not
riddled
with
pain
and
dismay.

I want to be
small,
simple,
average,
for there is nothing
to be desired
in anguish,
and I now
find myself
writhing in
envy of
those who possess
the gift
of
apathy.

The beauty of a woman
is in the poems she's wrote,
the dreams she's weaved
and all the stories she's told.

The beauty of a woman
is in the adventures she's taken,
the lives she's touched
and all the minds she's awakened.

The beauty of a woman
is in the caring she gives,
the sincerity in her laughter,
and the passion in her griefs.

It's not the expensive clothes she owns,
her body size, the diamonds she's worn.
Measure not the beauty of woman in gold,
for the beauty of a woman is reflected in her soul.

I love the way it feels
To be barefooted
In the park,
The normally unexposed
Flesh of my feet
Brushing the blades of
Slightly browned grass
And dirt.

I hear the chirping
Of insect correspondence,
Croaking like frogs
In loud crescendos.
The lush green leaves
On the trees with fat wooden trunks,
They glow yellow under the
Fluorescent night lamps.
The leaves crinkle and crackle,
Shimmy in the wind,
Creating a summer staccato
Against the sounds
Emerging from those
Ever-chattering crickets.

A light breeze kisses my skin,
Twisting itself around
The darkness,
Morphing into a double helix,
DNA of the
breath
Of
Fresh air,
The summer
Heat
Briefly catching
A
Cold.