The rose,
Staid on the porch rail,
Was forbidden in the parlor.
First frost arrived,
Enrobing petals in velvet,
Crimson thick and skin softened,
Bewildering. Those who stroll by
Behold,
But not take —

Who could handle
The scentless spectacle
Spoiling inside?

A private decay in a white blanket tomb,
A fading in a deafened hollow.
Next year the neighbor will plant
New roses to surrender.

Knocking on your door
But no one's home today
I brought a cake and iced champagne
It was supposed to be a special occasion
I call and get no answer
I get no explanation
I'm just standing here by myself
But I guess that's how it goes
So, oh well
Songbirds
Lovebirds
What difference does it make?
It's all a dance to be danced
The end result is the same
Everything that happens winds up in the grave
Still wide awake at 2
My palms sweat in a motel room
See you again?
Maybe the next time
Maybe someday soon

For when the sun burns and turns colden,
The bright yellow spurns from beauty golden,
to a lack of interest for a system
relying on light to pour; listen
though sound travels less
in haste, it makes our bodies bounce.

For when the girl is burned and trounce
The bright mind spurned from evening gown
to a lack of interest to assist him.
He relied on her light to pour; her to listen
though sorry travels, lest
after distaste, it makes us pronounce.

For when a mistake is burned into history.
The stone cold as etched again, and sought.
Good will may be borrowed, entrusted, stolen,
but rarely bought.

For when a daybreak creeps into horizon.
The stones thrown as glass houses brought
Goodly upon their foundations,
in the naked eyes of all sunspot.

May those coloured fractals of which lurch deftly.
Return to shared *****, directly, swiftly. Freshly.