I was running through a bright forest of verdant herbs and prickly, proud pines that seemed taller than the brilliantly blue sky.

I gradually  slowed down, admiring the flourishing and crippling plants alike, like the crunchy copper leaves that happily drifted through the wind.

Tree trunks like rusting brass, flowers with lustrous, glossy petals from the utterly impeccable rain drops that fell oh, so elegantly from the Heavens.

“But alas, Heaven is here!” I exclaimed dreamily; the beautiful birdsong that echoed so subtly, but with such a strong and majestic manner, was pure perfection.    

The amicable squirrels that hurriedly scurried across the lengthy branches that created lovely bridges, where creatures big and small would gather in harmony.

This was Autumn in Heaven.

The café smelled of scones and coffee,
to wake up and smell the coffee,
ah, yes.

The record player always played classics,
the occasional static of an especially old vinyl
bringing a smile to my face.

The orange café, just quaint and small,
but you could still see the sunrise,
the sunset,
and everything in between.

It was, most definitely, the place to be.
I guarantee.

Foxglove, for insincerity.
Orange lilies, for hatred.
Geraniums, for stupidity.
Meadowsweet, for uselessness.
Carnations, for disappointment.

You planned this, didn't you?
I understand your loathing for me,
but your loathing for yourself
is amplified tenfold.

Books lined with years' accumulation of dust,
old ink and an ostrich feather quill,
crippled purple plants on macrame hangings
and mustard yellow couches with wooden legs.
It was my library, my home.

You drain me of a necessity to live.
You try to enthrall me with manipulation and power.
You lie, you don't love me, you are much too aloof for that.
You are conniving, with a malicious smirk to accessorize your bloodshot eyes.  
You disdain me, you love only those who can offer you gold.
You need not receive my love, for you are too fascinated with yourself.

They're so ungrateful,
so terrible,
what must I do
to avoid these swines?

Such strength
needn't be brute force
only unleashed on your opponents.

It can be used
to create a sight
of pure elegance.

The spruce cries merry tears of sap,
like molasses or honey-
the bark holds no bucket or tap,
and now it's all sticky;
it cries, it stings with pine
as we strut through the forest
as if it were yours, as if it were mine,
let us venture, dearest.

A chaste thing it is,
to stare at your reflection
as you decorate your face,
watching the transition.

You no longer
serve a purpose
because all you are
is an anchor around my ankle
dragging me down,
drowning me in pity
for your miserable soul.

Never trust the someone's hug,
that small, erratic embrace.
It hides all their intentions
behind an unseen face.

What in the world did you do
to be pushed from the cloudy shores of the Heavens
and fall, wings aflame, into sulphur and hellfire?

your pupils, dilated
your iris', fluorescent
full of desire and
show me how enamoured you are.

Covetous, you;
parsimonious, gold spent;
you now have ****** and wine, what else?

Drink your whiskey till you take your last breath,
for there is no drinkin' after death.
All the wounded men will shout and cry,
amongst all the dead men, let him lie.
May the king live well in his wealth,
and may he bid us forever lasting health.
Drink, drink, drink till you're down,
and may the rightful king wear the crown!

Small and plump,
a slow bite into a fruit
that sings a song of sweet and sour
until you clash into the pit.

I never rebelled,
I would never yell,
all was well
until I fell.

I'm bored ; such a dull, predictable routine.
I need change, a thrill, excitement!
Let's jump the fence,
let's see if the grass is greener
on the other side
and engage in more adventure
than ever before!

I love myself,
not like Narcissus,
rather likes Artemis
as I am always hunting for validation.

I smell petrichor,
as dew lands on grass.
I smell cinnamon
on the bristling autumn leaves.
I smell copper
as I ***** my finger
on a crippled rose.
What a blend,
such pleasan aromas.

I collect the tears of the sky
in hope that it will suffice
so that I need not release
tears of my own.

I once sat, wealthy, proud,
on a throne of velvet and gold.
I wore satin, not rags.
My castle, once made of the finest stone
has since become debris
of a kingdom
that has fallen.

A B S T R A C T

Time, is abstract,
where does the time go?
Does it perish, voyaging to oblivion?
Does it recuperate, recycle?
Where, when, why does it go?
It can go fast or slow.
T'is a fabric, a constant ticking.
Time, is abstract,
and we'll never find the time we lost.

It's so early,
yet so late.
I wonder,
why am I awake?
What an ungodly hour,
I think,
as I listen to myself breathe
and listen to the leaking sink.

1923,
leather cover,
French poetry.

Her eyes darted back and forth, from wall to wall,
in a room fogged with darkness.
Like a pendulum that wouldn’t cease to swing,
her heart beating like the ticking of a clock.
She remain idle.
Ebony skin, tainted,
by tears.
Where did this come from?
How curious, she thought.
She knew not from where the feeling stemmed,
but it lay deep within her, coursing through her veins.
Isolation.
The iris’ of her eyes, still swinging like brass pendulums,
Soon disappeared behind tired eyelids.
Drifting into sleep,
where isolation would be no more.

The folk tales say
that on the sapphire sea
the wind would roar
to the melody
of the siren's song.

The folk tales say
that the sailors were so enamoured
with the music of the seacreatures
that they jumped overboard to join them.

The folk tales say
that the sailors were hypnotized;
in reality, the sea drove them mad
and they dived to their demise.

A lithe breeze
sweeps the hair
from my face
so that I may
appreciate
the good in the world.

They said
that you had played me
like a fiddle,
they said
that you had played me
like a pawn in chess.

Whiskey and metal,
we wear black,
not to mourn,
but to hide.

I lay in the sand as the ocean caresses my skin
as it crawls boldly to the shore.
I ask for a favour, but the sea is its own master.
It is hungry, insatiable. It desires blood.
The moon shines brilliantly upon the ocean,
illuminating the flowing string of blood
that choses to meander upon crystalline waves.
I stare at the moon as she takes my unborn child.
"Do protect her, please."

Your knowing eyes,
they analyze;
Your curious mind,
ever blind;
Your vast intellect,
a grin of neglect;

You can see,
that may be;
You can spy,
but you will cry;
You can watch,
but you'll be a deathwatch;

You cannot be detective,
it takes the right perspective;
You cannot complete this task,
it would be too much to ask;
You cannot realize,
but you'd be traumatized;

You'd get quite a scare,
you couldn't bear;
It's quite a sight,
you'd get quite a fright;
Playing detective,
it's never fair;
Playing detective,
now that's rare.

The sun rose above the city,
but the air was dense, heavy,
frozen.
Every movement, a click of boots
a scurry of squirrels
was amplified by the barren cold.
Raindrops from the previous night
fall down the lampposts
on the verge of freezing like tears,
stuck in time.

the expectation
was that victory
would taste sweeter.
you shouldn't lament,
for no matter the outcome,
war always tastes bitter.

I'm merely a fraud
in the presence of true art,
a measly charlatan.
Alas, my aspirations
to acquire such pure talent
tells me that I may begin a fraud,
but I may earn fame later on.

I listen to the planes soaring through the clouds,
I watch a dragonfly kite pierce the air,
I hum a tune of delight.

What a lovely afternoon, wouldn't you say?

I listen to the birds chirping jauntily,
I watch you stare in amazement,
I smile with glee.

What a lovely afternoon, with you here to keep me company.

A composition that turns to ash in the crackling hearth; but now the crow cackles, how could you?

A wishing dandy,
to blow away all the seeds
and foolishly think that it would make
all of your dreams come true?

Not foolish, no.
It was a mother of seedlings that would grow
and while she may have perished,
her children traveled and sprouted.

That is all I would have wished for; life.

Firstly,
do not allow yourself
to be controlled.

Secondly,
indulge, but not too much.

Thirdly,
enjoy every moment
and learn from those moments.

Fourthly,
gratitude is important.
Use it.

And fifthly,
do not tolerate hatred,
rather,
diffuse it and be kind.

There is a fine line
between the utmost bravery
and utter stupidity.
I remain treading carefully
across that line
as though I were performing for a circus.

The smell of brewed herbs
and the hot metal
of the kettle
is strong in the room.

We drink,
we speak,
and we let our deepest secrets
spill out of our lips
like poison.

The air,
it smelled odd.
Like whiskey and copper,
cigarettes and petrichor,
but where do these aromas
come from?

What I pity
it would be
if suddenly,
I couldn't see.

I would be saddened
to lose my eyes,
but then again,
I wouldn't cry.

What a pity
it would be
if suddenly,
I couldn't speak.

It would be awful
to lose my voice,
for I would no longer
have a choice.

When you awaken,
wipe the grime from your eyes
and squint to the sun,
start the day like you wanted to
yesterday.

I used to gaze upon dandelions
as if the were flowers.
"They are only weeds, darling. We must rid of them."
But without them, I felt as though
our garden had too much space.
It wasn't cluttered with yellow,
it was bland.

You bring me petunias
from your ****** garden,
hoping to hear
what you like.

I apologize,
for I may be broken,
but I am certainly not
a liar.

I cannot tell you
what you would like
to hear,
for I have been hurt
beyond repair.