The silence in October,
is beyond these words.
From the mild cold and morning dew,
to this mid temperate Sun's hue.
All these flavours with daunting blues,
you see wings fly off to calming views.
This time in fractals now you realise,
time is flying in my locked paradise.
Stuck in this habitat for way to long,
Now I hear whispers in my October song.
Ending this year with variety in tears.
From disclosure to disease,
from disasters to deceased.
For this season of fall in yellow and green.
For the news of end is falling in.
Seeing these mild heated afternoons,
feeling those fear of loosing dearest aloof.
This series of season,
this sequence of months.
Calling to summarise this beauty in rust.
Now I see this year's fate is bend,
I am hearing October's rustle to end.
This time of the years is always special
I always wonder why by the end of the month
Every smell changes like seasons fall into place
How today would smell sappy and fresh
But tomorrow it’ll be sugary and sweet
Once, I saw you changing it
I asked why you do that
You smiled and handed it to me as I sniff it,
“Nothing really lasts long.”
Whenever I get a sniff of this it reminds me of that place
I’d always go at the back seat or beside you
But now you’re gone it’s never the same
For I never experienced being beside you again
Now, I get why you change it every month,
For even the pleasant smell of an air freshener is temporary,
Despite of its strong and rich scent
There’ll be a time it needs to be replaced
Soft and musky
Clean and cool
Mild and delicate
The scents you always loved
So as I change my car freshener,
I still wonder,
If you were here by my side,
Would you be the one to change it every end of the month?
There was a time
a letter back would take a month
yearning was a joy,
And here is the times now
a reply three seconds late
what a horrendous fate.
The Day is the Year is the Month
Not of passage but of transit
Evening to Morning, Dark to Light
And Seven Days decreed as a Week
Unmarked, of abstraction, not perception
And Seven of Seven is the Week of Weeks
Of Time marked by the Sun
The Pentecost and Jubilee is the Day
After Seven of Seven Days and Years
But of Time marked by the Moon,
the Seventh is the First, the First, the Seventh
And Seven of Seven is 42 months or 1260 Days
Now what do the Stars do for time?
kebab lips bleed
sweet chilli ozzzing
sanatary pitta bread
About a woman's time of the month. Wrote while I was hungry mmm... sweet chilli ©
Eleven years ago I am a vulture
picking at a rabbit on the side of the road.
I am just doing what I must to stay alive,
and the casual observer passes by
to observe, rapt, disgusted but unable
to look away. Then a wind blows and I
am Victor in the motel hallway, knees
enclosed in my elbows, head tipped back
against the wall and eyes on the ceiling
in dismay. Then the train hits the tracks
and I am cracked and reassembled
in the present day, carrying all these
ways that we’ve been gay. Feeling our
burns of each degree, how we are
months fly by
crisp November air
changes go past
from streetlights on main
to budding riverbanks
a love lost
for something and somewhere
far out from grasp
Welcome to the month that you hear everyone stories, then the people who usually just make fun of them say how much they care.
People like me suffer every day, but usually, no one cares.
Please don’t tell me to pick to be happy.
I didn’t choose to be sad.
I chose to live, which the hardest of them all.
Maybe dying would be more comfortable, but I won’t give up to be another static.
I’m not a number that will be seen in the news, and people who hated me will make a post about how much they loved me.
My pain isn't a way for others to make money.
Happy national awareness time.
I hear you
I’m with you
Don’t fly yet.
There is still come.
I love you all.
The show is poetry in motion
even on the black canvas of the night
it remains a live showdown the stars
one that's hardly dark in the dark.
The fireflies fly through
highlighting in silver lines
that could barely shed new light
amid the spectator stars
eye on upon it from the far.
The sea in black in the night
billows with full of ink
only to wish to ink a beauty spot
above its forehead on a shining Moon-dew.
Looking down on it from the stars
the sea in black is bedewed with moonlight.
It’s not that there is no red no purple no colour
it's the garden of every morning's new sun
in bloom in the shady bud of the night.