Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard,
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

My lust, my thirst,
Day by day happen to increase,
But the truth is it darling,
That my life till date has been cease (d)

She leaves a cold scar where she treads
icicles hang from her teeth fall shattered
deep into the flesh of the valley sheltering
trying to find a reason to keep on living
while the remnants of her passing settle
the whoosh of her wind a dark spell of winter.

Hear ye!
Hear ye!
Oh how I love concrete poetry!
Itching to write and sculpt and mould.
Twiddle my thumbs as I thought to myself silently.
Reckon I'd render my musings in italics and in bold!

Hear ye!
Hear ye!
30 days of concrete, wouldn't you fancy?!
These poems, they come in various shapes.
Would you consider them "poetic eye candy"?
If I fashioned poems to look like grapes!

Hear ye!
Hear ye!
Awashed with excitement!
I can't wait to share!
Fantastical, delicious and ultimately succulent!
A wonderful spread of such wordy fare!

Hear ye!
Hear ye!*
When is this... GREAT BIG AFFAIR?
On the morrow, I'll dish out the first serving!
Do tune in if you so do care...
30 days of concrete! The shape fest is beginning!

My Sun in absentia today , my presence unneeded at the Tree of Life , I cried myself to sleep last night ..I recognized a set of eyes that belonged to a pig on the slaughter line.. They were mine ..