A mockingbird suddenly chirps
Just like a cricket's sound.
Then it beeps like a car alarm.
It runs through its amazing repertoire,
None of which these creatures truly are.
I've known men just like that.

I hear the little pitter-patter of raindrops
And listen for the sound of ice as it falls.
Raindrops manifested as ice crystals
With its delicate but distinctive sound
As the tiny bits ****** softly down
Like seeds scattered on the ground.

They glisten like slivered splinters of glass
Amid the fallen autumn leaves on grass
And magnify the beauty with shards of color
Glinting through accumulating gathered ice.
A foundation for a Crystal Palace in miniature
The beauty captivates within a time capsule

Of only one wintery day.

Death allows as time goes forth,
For empathy where you once had none.
No longer vulnerable to the hooks
That can tear at a heart opened.
They cannot hurt you now.

Tumultuous beauty
Like raging waters
Falling over vast cliffs
Into basins of whirlpools

And billowing monoliths
Of dark clouds rushing past
All within a container
Of your human flesh

Droplets of red
Splatter across
The room
Pooling into puddles
O, the horrors
A messy scene
As I slice into

The strawberries

No poet is dead
If the poet is read.
Between life and death
There is a reality
Beyond reality, it seems.
Poets live on
If only in a reader's dreams.

The Truth is often painful
Yet, truth is required.
We must face it head-on
For it cannot be denied.

When we look into an abyss
We see faces looking back.
Our humanity must accept
Some faces are long gone.

Our duty is to remember.