It was so utterly calm outside today
The weather was lacking
And the sky was grey
No rain or sun
Maybe the sky was feeling numb
Although sleep will come
Flickering lights
The TV knows night
Eyes seduced by its temperament
Out goes my light

By the river we sat,

the fish squirm below.

They remind me of speckled dirt.

A stone flies, spattering  

rings of a tree which show  

our life over the short years.



The insects that sing and thrive during a  

Summer day relish in a sun

so warm it brightens our skin

turning it deep red as the maple leaves

when autumn shows its cold shoulder.  



The color slowly hurts as the harsh winds

hit our cheeks with a slap

full of rules and stricter discipline.  

Distance is not the only thing

that grows between us.



Snow drops appear slowly, yet

I sit waiting by the river for you.

Chills form, I stand as still as the snow.

Leaving footprints of longing, I backtrack

every time I spot a piece of fresh grass

sprouting out of the blank blanket;

A new-born friend, that is very weak.

Searching for a replacement as time grows.



The river thaws, Winter ends, bringing  

Spring in poor conditions.  

Mud has encased the entirety of the water.

So thick, it is a disturbing smell, or it could

be you I think of so fondly.

Your booming voice has never been so clear;

Bringing a rain so soft,

it makes me tremble under its pressure

as you shed all my tears.

(Written from my best friend's viewpoint. I hope she gets better soon.)

In search of release,
Autumnal gusts escape me.
A sorrow shower.

In the stables, or in the wild.
In the winter, or in the summertime.
In the shadow of the sunshine,
In the darkness of the cold night.

Free;
The Stallion must ride.
Free;
The Stallion must ride. . .

A chilled tired man,

Cheated of warmth,
Hungering comfort.

Darker and heavier skies bleed the city of light,
The first specks of rain hit the tired, sun fried, foot worn pavements
And I feel summer sink into my socked ankles.

Archibald Brown, man around town, locks up his sunshade,
The wind lifts rotting fence panels like discarded betting slips
And I smell winter rising in my rattling chest.

Rain on the window, like Mercury drops on a mirror,
Through clouded milk bottle glasses I peer at grey sky and flat green trees,
And I sense Summers end.

Crying now,
Longing for Spring.

You remind me of fresh dew on the grass,
In the morning when it’s cold,
And still dark but the sun is ebbing,
Just below the horizon.

In the sort of calm way that a heart,
Can open,
I wake up to you like snowy mornings,
Mild frost and a chill in the air,
Just enough to make me feel,
A little more alive than usual.

Something crisp, and delicate,
Begs beyond the surface.
Is it the siren’s call?

For the one who has no rest from tempest to tempest,
What does the word mean: summer?
What does the word mean: winter or weather?
Would he believe ever that there's a good weather?
Would he believe in warmness and sunshine or any similar form,
Or rather, would he see them as the lull before the storm?
Wouldn't he see the sun as hiding new tortures?
Wouldn't he hide under a tempest's cloak as turtles?
Saying: Oh Sweet Home, I know you and you know me,
Oh Sweet Roar, Thunder and Rain; follow me.

and as the weather turns sour each year
i find my body curling in on itself
like yesterday’s paper burning up
to fuel that sweet, sweet fire.
and i find my toes sticking through old knitted socks,
and i find myself kissing new faces.
oh, the sweet with the bitter,
the moths and the red wine of it all.
how i’ve come to embrace this deep, purple weather,
and all that it brings within.

i can understand
if you're not making plans
cause it's only autumn
it's the time for boredom

sun is coming down
i can't feel the ground
raindrops on my head
even on my bed

nothing i can't solve
it will soon dissolve
find a new solution
start a new discussion

turn off the alarm
stay here in my arms
if you need just call
walk you through it all