Spy the turtle-there!
Playing peek-a-boo with me,
loving the whimsy.

You don't look like I know you should; your clothes, your hair, your body and your accessories speak to a culture that I do not understand.
I'm not even sure I want to.

Before you cry hate realize that I am not speaking to the colour of your skin; pigment has zero relevance to the way you were raised, the friends you chose or who you are as you stand before me in this modern society.

The alien I find in you are the choices you've made, or rather the very few choices you've made as you've allowed the flavours of the masses to salt your very being, laying the foundation for the same row houses on each block, 'we' nothing more than automations that turn right, vote left and drive straight on into the witless death of 'our' meaningless life. Group hug.

I obviously am not talking about you; you read this poem and judge it unworthy or not and write your own birthing thoughts not yet authored, cutting yourself free from the tether of normality making the awakening of social consciousness possible.

Or perhaps I'm just another ******* on the train wearing awesome golf pants coming back from the game that takes more than it gives griping about life and those that don't live it or love it.

Who is to say what is true and what is false,
Perhaps the angels who have fallen are you,
And me.

Stories and fables speak of our desires and fears,
What are the gods if not reflections of all that we find holy?
Does that not beg the question of who created who?
Is God nothing more than a combination of our eggs?
Some broken,
Never a dozen whole,
A reflection, however poor,
of our fractures beliefs.

And if we are fallen from grace and this life was deemed a sort of punishment then is it not our God given duty to rise above the suffering,
Deny the base temptations
And close the door on the face of hate?

I do not judge the fallen angels,
I count myself amongst them,
And we want to go home.

When the sun sets and madness comes to play.
I pray for you,
Please don't be far away.

The wolves howl as they hunt their nighttime prey,
I often ask,
Do they fear coming day?

I travel alone yet I am not lonely,
I close my eyes,
It is your smile I see.

I put these poor words to digital ink,
My sentiments;
Hello Poetry link.

I have found beauty in the whimsically ordinary.

Like bees to honey is how you draw me to you,

I become lost as you capture me in your hungry gaze even as I find myself within the universal depths of your bejewelled eyes,

And other cliche nonsensical phrases.

I love you.

Let’s dream of a place,
In between spaces of space
In this whimsical hour
Watch how time devour,
Our lyrical tryst
Amidst the winter mist

Sharing dream amid the flowers
for a couple of hours
The dreams in which I'm dying
Or rather just denying
Deluding the petty mind
Of the worldly grind

It’s a beautiful day
So dazed, we just lay
Birds and bees won’t disturb us,
While our thoughts turn incongruous
We’ll forget that we are even real
It’ll all be too surreal.

You open your eyes to say
Out comes only a pray
Slowly the dusk beckons
Breaking your heart it’s gone;
Gasping desires
Dreams on a pyre.

Warm rain drops beating the pattern of my heart's pulse on the shutters of this old barn house while far away a lone wolf cries, unanswered.

Wind kissed tears from hollow sad eyes form wet trails over dried out wrinkles, whistling through the caverns of past glories on this war torn face, bringing colour and life with the desert rose.

Softly playing violins couple with the lone broken voice of a fallen angel, singing of maladies forgotten, joys yet birthed and a promise, a promise that you fulfill with each breath.

Morning bird song chirping of fresh hope and new love, a sweet tune warding off possible predators even while in search of prey.

Rumbling thunder, the roaring approval of gods reverberating within my bones, my soul, even as the hairs on my arm stand on end at the sound of the fickle lords' voices.

The silence of night captures my imagination, from it's seemingly emptiness rises fables of faery love and poems of ***** desires, all falling short of your brilliant black opal beauty.

What to write about?

Should I speak of my love?
It's continued development,
The lessons learned and hurts hastily covered with blue coloured bandaids and a kiss?
A favoured topic to be sure.

Shall I rhyme about lust?
Love's charm without the rust,
Your soft body beneath me a must,
That this need will fade, unjust.
Once departed, lacking love, this passion returns to dust.

What is left?

Hate does not touch me,
Not in this country,
Not in my city of cherry blossoms and sunshine,
Or darkly overcast skies coupled with soft misting rain. (Depression?)
Not today!

Death is a foreign entity.
I am not unsullied,
Yet I do think much more of this ***** than as life's bratty little sister.
Necessary,
Which may one day grow into something beautiful to be admired,
But for now is nothing more than crayons coloured outside of the lines.

I guess I should not write at all.

For what worth is there to put pen to paper,
(Finger to touch screen),
When my muse is silently humming a tune to which only she knows the words?
I can hear the rhythm,
My blood pulses with it's beat,
But I cannot glean the meaning.

Therefore I am done,
For this poem is about nothing.