In his seasons passing words wither and fade with the sunsets reprise.
These images paint portraits with grey backdrops tattered, twisted throwing stones across the pond only to hear them vanish in the dark waters below.

All the pretty flowers fully in bloom untouched by earth and unsoiled in the dirt of corruption of an existence lived in regret.
Bitter pills and torn pages have we not traded are truths to be lies created for are own protective womb of deceit to fulfill our ego.

All the pretty flowers wither just the same.
As standing skeletons left only to haunt the backdrop of our thoughts decay.

Are we not monsters?, Who once stood as men with great views whose vices consumed them turning us into something we can barely recognize ourselves.

Soil once fertile now seems only scorched a barren square of emptiness once were all things did grow.
All the pretty flowers mourn springs passing this concrete idealism for which no direction seems to suit us best.

I stand where here no longer will anything grow.

There was something almost tragic
about the way you pretended you didn't care what people thought of you,
some sort of relinquished magic,
and in your actions,
I could tell,
although wondrous flowers grew inside of you,
poisonous roots did as well,
These vices of fear,
or fake fearlessness,
helped to create
a grand, humorous mess
and watching this,
watching you,
was like watching the summer sky at noon,
what a spectacular view

You're the reason I stopped drinking
You were the only vice I needed
But the second you left is the second
I picked up the bottle again

People assume I'm just black.
One drop rule, I suppose.
I guess I'm a black girl with a Starbucks addiction.

With a warm breath on my neck, she kisses my shoulder
I could feel my cold winter pass, as my dream comes true at last
generous is she, as she has revealed my open chest
as her face nuzzles and grins a little as her blue eyes
look into my piercing glaze,
with tenderness and care she gives herself ...

She poured herself as blood, to give my heart the desired love
her blood boiling in me, an unfamiliar feeling came over me
I could feel her course through my veins, pulsating my soul
our bodies shudder as we partake in our transfusion
the feeling was so overwhelming, I wouldn't dare stop it now ...

Sweat drops on my tongue, tasting the liquid of her passion
mouth to mouth we breathe into every swelling kiss
our palms meet and take hold, neither one not wanting to let go
with nothing but candles burning,
our naked shadows exposed on the wall
we shared every inch of each other,
with a serpent tongue I roamed
I knew her before the night was new ...

Enriched by her delicate beauty, the simpleness of her love
she rests upon me, her breath so long
her intense wetness, scorching my love as she moves
the grinding of pelvis to pelvis, so deep so new so raw
releasing with pleasure with a deluge of sweet nectar
in only in a dream, she healed my very soul ...

Debbie Brooks 2014

Among addictions and vice
there are none I want more
than an addiction to the sunrise,
a vice most forgiving.

The taste of alcohol,
inciting the bellicose beast
cannot satisfy me,
and I have tried.

As for pleasure,
the kind that makes skin crawl
and the breath heavy,
needs more than itself to satisfy,

so I searched on.

Chalices of wine and paper smoke,
skin and bedrooms bathed in moonlight,
the allure of quick satisfaction
could not satiate my thirst.

Only one scene has been constant,
delivering me from my vices,
partner of the morning skies,
far from tinctures and tonics,

the sunrise.

I have a reputation
One I wish would go away

But this world has no magic
For that I'd have to pay

I've met my one and only,
I've met him once or twice.

And I know a lot of stories
No single one tells my vice.

Twice I've tried
Twice I've died