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spring beetles sensed rain
painted cactus flowers bloom
deserts sometimes flood

-cec
scarab beetles fly
spirals: plop, drop, round dance, lay
dung-***** bear new life

-cec
Everywhere I could be
your scent persists.
Vibrant.
Brissiling.
Blooming        out
to the edge of sight.
This bed of flowers that follows.
What fragrant colors
fill my day: Platinum, pale gold, indigo
as you linger on me,
rested in rich black
soil. So familiar
it seems a mirage.
When it comes to us, I’m chasing the wind
I’ll never catch up and there is no end
This safari into the unknown
Destiny propels me into the love zone

Where does the wind come from?
I’d sure like to know
It just arrives, then off it goes
Don’t be left behind
Or you’ll never know
It carries us
A mystery show

Ah, the wind
The mighty wind
Here we go with it
Into the sky
The mighty wind
Taking us in
Don’t even ask why
The days have past
when I would kiss a lass

When it comes to drink I now pass

No longer dare I to hold a
hand
Nor will I run
Nor make a stand

I'm an old ruffled grouse of a Pheonix







Lying/Laying on my bed of cold ashes


just waiting on a spark of some kind  .
Love is not just fire and spark,
but hands that hold you in the dark.
It’s quiet words, a steady heart,
a choice to stay, not drift apart.
Stumbled to the fact
It is the moment you act
Is the movement,
But the second you react
it is where you stumble
start your grumble.
A quiet, dusty tumble,
Where doubt's seed,
Begins to humbly fumble.
Tried to the thought
all the things that you got
it's all forgotten lot.

Rushed to the plea,
a whispered decree,
a silent notion,
but the instant you see,
it's a fragile illusion,
lost in confusion.
Yearned for the hold,
a story untold,
a future grown cold.
Finding copper in gold
all that we get sold
Indeed we are getting old.
In London’s fog, so dimly lit,
Where gaslight shadows softly flit,
Albert Crowe, unseen, did tread
The backstage world where dreams are fed.
By day, a hand upon the stage,
By night, alone with silent rage,
Within his room, his heart’s lament
Beneath the guise of merriment.

A lonely soul in twilight’s gloom,
His life a cycle, toil his doom,
Yet spring brought change with sweet Eliza’s face,
A star whose light his dark would chase.
Her voice like bells, her smile bright,
That cut through shadows of the night,
But admiration soon would turn
To darker flames that fiercely burn.

His heart, once filled with gentle views,
Now tracked her steps, her smiles perused;
From fascination grew a need
That festered into darkened greed.
In corridors, he’d plan to meet,
With props misplaced, and whispers sweet,
Yet every smile she’d cast aside
Drove deeper still the thorns of pride.

When autumn’s chill brought spectral play,
He chose this scene to make her stay.
A dagger hidden, curtain’s call—
This hallowed eve would see it all.
In her chamber, quiet, dim,
He spoke of love, his voice so grim.
A blade, a ******, a scream did rise,
A final look in frightened eyes.

With horror, what his hands had wrought,
The chaos of a twisted thought.
He fled the scene, his soul unbound,
Her spectral screams the only sound.
By guilt and visions sorely pressed,
In nightly haunts, he found no rest.
Each day a play, each smile a mask,
In sorrow’s light, he’d daily bask.

One night, upon the stage, he stood,
Clad in the hero’s garb and hood.
The crowd, unaware of coming doom,
Watched silent in the gathering gloom.
He spoke, his voice a hollow shell,
Of love and loss, of heaven and hell:
“Behold a man, by darkness driven,
To seek his peace, to be forgiven.

“My heart was lost, my soul misled,
By dreams of love that now are dead.
For in my grasp, a deed so dire,
Has quenched the light of passion’s fire.
O Eliza, sweet and fair,
Your ghost now haunts my every prayer.
No longer can this heart be still,
Tonight, I end this tragic thrill.

“So listen now, as curtains close,
On final acts, on bitter woes.
With this blade that once did part,
The life and breath of my own heart,
I take my leave, my soul to free,
From chains of mortal agony.
May angels guide me where I roam,
And lead my spirit safely home.”

With that, he turned the blade to chest,
In death’s embrace, he sought his rest.
The curtain fell, the crowd in tears,
Reflecting on his haunted years.
Silence reigned, the theatre still,
A tale of woe, of mortal ill.
On vaudeville’s stage, a shadow cast,
A love, a life, a breath—his last.
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