she hated the cold
bleak silence, for that's when her
thoughts are the loudest

As I lie in autumn dreams
I see the moonlight shine in beams
And caress the rose red fall-time leaves
That flail and flutter beneath the trees

While autumn blooms are not unseen
They distract the crowds with grace serene
A performance of pirouetting figurines
Whose voices are drowned by our machines

As humans we stumble and struggle through life
We carry our shame and we comfort our strife
While the trees are all children whose leaves are small kites
That get tossed up and blown round by faith and not sight

I know the world is autumn's fight
As starshine fades and day breaks night
Is it happenstance or is it right
That branches shed what gives them life?

I may not have heard you call my name
*but i felt your spirit

The spirit is dark.
Vile
We all have it in us
*unpleasable nature

The cold wind greeted
the hoarfrost that
evening as white
butterflies started to
fall from the dark sky.
Soon the pearly blanket
was spread across
the whole land.
It sparkled on the milky
moonlight, giving the old
willow tree a wooly gown.
Covering all the roofs,
the fields of corn and wheat,
the tall grass on the meadow.
But then she appeared,
sending fairies to dance on the
frozen lake thus melting the ice.
And with every step that she took,
snowdrops began to bloom.

Pound cake and strawberries on snow white
porches
Guitars , coffee and cigarettes
Southern etiquette   
Multi-colored leaves
A cool Fall breeze
Welcome relief* ...

Black is the color of my true love.
Black is his voice.
Black is his face.
Black is his hair.

Black is the fullness of his lips.
Black is the roundness of his nose.
Black is the posture of his pose.

My true love is the color of black.
His strong back and arms.
His never give up or in attitude.

To him my soul belongs.
His love is mine.
And my love is his.

My true love is the color of black.

Death can do strange things,
like time-lapse photography,
undress those quite bored, or
make a patron saint out of a fool,
turning sleek idiots into monks
more mysterious than Rasputin.

What a place to drink, the casino
death runs, nothing fancy or beautiful,
a blind man called Dark Island
taking requests on a piano with keys
worn dull as bone handled knives.

A place the lost can find work, graceless
and not made in America without a living,
all these odd jobs death can do, like art,
factory smoke blown in the eyes of women
in Senegal making overalls for Walmart.