My footsteps were memorizing
the cracks of the floor,
vines creep along the grounds
as the constellations,
they are the patterns to my wonderland.

Gold flush,
rose blush
You are beautiful in my memories
and I unlocked  the box of my dreams,
wounds are deeper than to what I feel
Stitched with the strings I tied to you,
People are vines as they fall in despair.

be the vines,
exist slowly. cautiously.

crawl up, looking for any
footholds to expand your reach.

exist violently.
tear down the bricks of
the building you conquered

and above all else—

rise to the top of what you hate the most.

Cold finger tips
Rush down my arm
Yet fire burns through my veins
Lighting me up
What I feel is not life
Rather a silver lining
Passionate yet sorrow
Filled with a vengeance that cuts deep
My eyes roll back
The kiss of death now comes

A sugary sweet smell
Of a flower
It twists and turns
Sharp vines puncture itself
Yet it flows along
When the wind comes it drifts along with it
But a rock can not understand that
The rock sits and stays
A strong silent type
Obedient in its own will
Not so much stubborn rather unsure

fresh starts creep like vines
layering the window sill
the day smells like rain

Beckoning
by Michael R. Burch

Yesterday the wind whispered my name
while the blazing locks
of her rampant mane
lay heavy on mine.
And yesterday
I saw the way
the wind caressed tall pines
in forests laced by glinting streams
and thick with tangled vines.
And though she reached
for me in her sleep,
the touch I felt was Time's.

This is an early poem, written during my youthful Romantic period. I believe I wrote the original poem around age 18, then revised it six years later. Keywords/Tags: Love, freedom, beckoning, lure, allurement, time, wind, pines, streams, vines, hair, mane, locks, travel, departure, parting, separation, loss