September is creeping at summer’s corners
with stealth, so slight, so slender
flakes of gold, no fight, still tender.

Your heart dances a
Funky little beat,
And your jazzy fingers
Strum right along
To the song.
A sugar sweet soul
Made of rock and roll.

Indie lips sing
With an alternative twist,
A little reggae in your step.
Behind your lips, a classical dance;
Oh love, give the world a chance.
A musical melting ***, mon chèri.
Darling, you’ll be legendary.

like the simple, earthy, natural scent
the air gives off when it rains for ten minutes
then the sun comes out


©L.F.

His hair so rich and thick
Spiraling upward higher and higher
Voluminous in appearance
Bold in its statement

Copious curls demanding attention
Natural, beautiful and free flowing
Standing tall to whomever it encounters
Sunlight beaming into its brown hue

It tells a story of bloodline and culture
Narrates history, prejudice, acceptance
Perseverant by nature
Resilient against criticism

I worship his hair from a distance
Yearning to feel it in between my fingers
Kiss his strands one by one
Inhale its scent like aromatherapy

He gives her the butterfly as an act of beautification
Hoping nature can exemplify his feelings; A fragile life,
Balanced between death and existence in his fingers
Making sense of all the nonsense in his head.
He gives her the flowers in an act of affection
Even though they both know they are dead,
Only water prolonging the inevitable demise
Of colourful blooms returning to the earth
From where they once grew, like their love
Beautiful under the sun, natural and charming,
Until you told them that love is shown with silver
And gold, diamonds and pearls, chocolate and cards
High octane fast cars, exclusive meals in top restaurants
Theatre tickets and front row concerts, but the butterfly
***** it’s wings and somewhere in the world,
There is a hurricane.

I warned him though,
of my affinity for destruction

That I chase thunderstorms,
and am the most distraught in idyllic settings

That I burn beautiful things down,
Simply to watch them burn

And that I will run from him,
if he ever feels like safety

I warned him
but he couldn’t see destruction,
in the way I spoke of poetry and the stars.

Windy torrents of water and thunders echo
against a silent brown house,
It's large grey doors open, shrill voices sing,
chandeliers burn...
more sounds are heard outside, like a wailing.
chandeliers burning the ceiling...
statue wax ivory figures melt, burning in their
passion, melting turned violet red they have become
hopeful, promises of painless joys, power over
wars, famine, disease and all things of darkness
are whispered in hushed "sincerity and truth"
but still vague and opaque.
Even now a banging of hail, leaves upon a pane
all the doors blow open now
and with a shriek all of wind in the drops are
scattered drenching, so even the mid morning rain
can still drip earth upon the clear white figures
revealing their true origin
rendered **** by what once made them.