Like whispers, nighttime speaks.

Water falls to the creek
My blood flows of emotion
As a tear drop leaks.

Whispers

The sky thick with ice
foggy visions
Fill my sight.

Nighttime

Whisper in my ear
Winds of change
Are getting near.

Serene

Thunderous day
Come back again
Speak my reflection
Of my only friend.

He protects his phone
but not his ***.
Sitting on a cherry
withered-wood,
it's good to remember
that in December,
he waited for this
tired world, to pass
him by, for his mother
to 'please come home.'

Casper, undercut with curls on top,
plays a greyed banjo while wearing
the green-chestnut flannel his dad
wore before he disappeared into
vermilion sky, only remembered
with lullabies from a hopeful mom
that smelled like Pall-Malls and
factory-soaked-heartbreak.

White, chiseled with skeleton intention,
he sips from within himself,
hoping to harness new direction.