The eternal strings play
as crows feathers
                  fall like tears.

But alas,
               these will never dry
seeding the clouds with grey.

Every melody is a line of life,
now serenading stone words.

A sunset caressing
chiselled days, years,
                       then nothingness.

Upon a wooden box,
               a crow sings tears
that form on the strings of
      yesterdays now played.

          The future is barren of you.

i savored
what bloomed
on your lips
then climbed
a tree of your words
barren to the last branch

I will love you gone. Fluttering heartbeats shake trees into homes. Planting feet in the disposible cottages I roam freely from. I love you Brown even though all I've ever known was Green. Once an alive thing now foraged. Barren as I am wingless, Cant turn away from lacking leaves. I will love you deathly even if you dont nourish me any longer. You return greener than before, but sap only so sweet can be found on a dead tree.

withered and without flower
dry and has no aroma
but do not worry
You've been written by the time
has become beautiful among the weeds
now is the time
new seeds grow in a barren land

To surprise mending hearts,
the rain has come.
How they know, its work is done.
Now light-filled hearts were dark; too dark
withered & waiting for the clouds to return.

I walk by a garden that’s not mine.
Not everyday, but less than I’d want.
It has a flower blossoming right by the gate.

It’s petals are green.  They sparkle with dew.
Bright and glowing at all times of the night and day.

It’s face is fire. Crackling and warm, a beacon to lost souls and small animals. Warming pieces of people that were unknowingly frozen.

It’s stem is lithe. Twisting, gently curving its way up to the sun. Strong enough to hold its head up and not bow to the wind.

It’s roots, enigma. I do not know how deep they go. But I’d be willing to try find find a *** big enough to hold them all stretched out.

I’d wish to have such perfection in my garden.
I’ve tried placing beauty in it, to no avail.
I once even planted a pretty **** with thorns and spikes. It didn’t last either.
Perhaps my land is salted.

.
And I stumble on across the barren land,
the mist, like a shroud, about me swirls,
chipped flint rocks assault my bare feet,
an endless quarry of slate grey, my world.

So the curtain of sadness and submission falls,
covering my mind with an opaque funeral drape,
the hazy images of the isolated and desolate,
forming the features of depressions landscape.

Vaguely felt, the invasion of another waits,
blind and innocent in a palace of real fear,
set free to roam in a strange arid topography,
desperate times pause for vision to be clear.

A stark scene viewed through teardrops frozen,
by ice winds of piercing calamity and despair,
of a place exclusive to the disaffected and lonely,
the last retreat for an exhausted mind to repair.

And this is my world where the haunted party,
leave me be with my cold mists and grey stone,
the frozen tear for a souvenir means everything,
my special gift, the feeling of being utterly alone.



© Pagan Paul (24/01/18)