If it weren't for the consistent badgering of radical america your roots your nourishment would enrich the very soil our ancestors turned,

but pests and pesticides alike have yet
to be relinquished,

"autumn" has consumed us as smiles fall-- the hazmat suits leave us bare to the weathered reality,

except you,

umbrellas and storm sheltered words nurture loved ones -- you are worth the wait,

with conflict resolve you take off your helmet and gear we are not prepared for such violence -- shielded eyes from falsified truths you bloom and blush,

you are beautiful,

a perfect storm your wrath the 5th element -- uncontrollable you are free as "winter" resides on your shoulder,

she is awakened and unapologetic,
a God among us,

frightfully we are safe we have waited for your wine to runneth and pop goes the cork,

as the war begins your throne you sit with confidence.

With due admiration , and peaceful contemplation , rediscover your portion of Earth in meditative resolve , your heartbeat in metronomic cue with each gust of wind , nostrils filled with the pure love of creation . Poetry , music and color transformed into audible serenity , the spoken word caress of woodland hands will resonate and envelope the very machinations of your creative soul . Caressing your face , blue whispers of parallel life continuance , yellow songbirds shall attune the warmth from a loving star ..
Let Eros complete every sentence , answer every question , color the natural world before you and direct every step .
Troubled sleep , insidious dreams and anger placed in permanent repository , transformed into prudent fruit ripened cautiously on the vine .

I can't stop thinking about you.
Can I be your treasure,
Your love,
Your perfection?
I'm never going to amount to enough,
But you make me feel like I do.
Finding safety in your arms--
A feeling I can't explain.
Trust completely,
Could this be love?

I want to see where this will go,
But not to go our separate ways.

Dizzy, the rush
of thoughts incapacitate
synapses firing, neurons
    throttled, a crescendo
    of dendrites branching

Experience roots
inwardly, tearing the humus
           of pregnant dreams, scratching to see
                               the blood beneath the scab.

     The greater the itch, the greater
        the disturbance of sleep,
            bound by a tangle of vines,
            deafened by the cobbling-together
                of thrushspeak, the cry of clouds
                contorting into unthinkable
                     and suggestive shapes        

   Bleary-eyed, the lost wages
   of sleep gambled away
   on a ticking clock.

Milky golden light sawn through
murky heavens and it bent my glacial heart.
The scent of soggy leaves out on the lawn,
fall has come and done its part.
Winter weighs heavy in the idle air,
hung as though it were a conversation
not yet had

Waning passions hushed by waxing sighs
and unpacked bags in need of packing
before the coming sunrise.
I talk of leaving often but you silence it
with pint-size gulps of red wine,
drunken *** and yet another argument
before you cry

Oh, the sensitivity!
Bombs, guns, war... Even the mention of the likes has the world around her at unease.
How long has it been since youths began using these terms
Without a hint of caution?
Why should it all be taken so seriously now?

She awakens each morning with the same melancholy.
Nothing changes, nothing's new,
She accepts life as it is.
There's a chance we'll be hit tomorrow.
There is a war going on, after all.
But, though she arises in a world left unharmed,
She is in tension still.

She moves on swiftly through another gloomy day.
The sky takes many colours,
The air holds many voices.
Yet, still, she is oblivious.
Her silence: impenetrable.
No joke could arouse laughter.
No insult could provoke anger.
To remain silent is her answer.

But why? No one asks.
Her beauty alone could break hearts.
Her words could mend souls.
Her touch could heal wounds.
Her voice could silence the world.

But no one has asked.
No one has wondered.
Everyone believes she is independent,
She's happy in her isolation,
She is content to continue the life she is living.

But inside she is far from happy.
Her isolation, she believes, is best for everyone.
She depends on everyone to help her,
But knows they cannot help.
No one would understand.
For she has all the answers,
Her words would mend souls.
Her voice would silence the world.

Though the sky takes many colours,
And the air holds many voices,
All she sees are the monsters in her mind.
And all she hears are their murmurs crawling into her reality.
She can see who the real terrorists are.

The truth is; no soldiers, no artillery and no attack can compare
To the threat the monsters bring her.
This is real war.

And that's why she doesn't speak.
She knows no one would understand,
For this she is glad.
But.. No one would want to hear what she has to say.
No one would like her words.
Her voice would silence the world.