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Valerie Brooke Jan 2010
A true writer never dies
whether in his truth or in his lies
Whether melancholy or blithe

His words will speak perpetually
through a reader's eyes
Each word ascends from the pages gracefully
And there is no need for goodbyes

With his readers now breathing his breath
in his dying, there is no death
Valerie Brooke Jan 2010
She wanted to be free
but she left without a word
How could she?
Now flying free as a bird

I must have mistaken
her beautiful face
for an everlasting one

Her smile lines still burned into my thoughts
Her kind eyes still trace the lines of my face
Her warm heart kindles mine

I think of a time
I lay on her shoulder,
her bones hurt my face
but I dont move
I just want to be close to her

Her presence is unmistakable
Tall, wafish figure
Pearl white teeth, straight and perfect
Oh, how I miss that smile
Everyone stops to stare
Her head is high, her chin is raised
She is a walking statue of liberty

But she was weak
Her beautiful smile now just a photograph
Her warm heart just a memory
And I am broken
Valerie Brooke Jan 2010
The white fluorescent lights buzz over my head, as if a method of determined annoyance.
Studying is a truly lackluster operation

Students methodically find ways to keep themselves distracted
Looking around, trying to catch glimpses of how others are managing their time so well, a frantic approach to studying that I have single handedly mastered

A very tan incongruous man, seats himself with the Miami Herald in hand
His skin has a leathery texture
He is a tall and gangly, strange looking man of at least 50
3 inch thick sideburns, red corduroy pants that reveal his mustard yellow socks and brown-black shoes
Button-down shirt with the vertical stripes, sure to match every color with the rest of his outfit
Off-white straw fedora hat with a forest green trimming,
He sports a fabulous mustache, that puts every biker’s or Italian baker’s whiskers to shame.
Something tells me he's not a student

Seated across from me are two foreign women that are studying the English language.
I know because they are the only ones talking, pushing my diversion from work a little further.

The sky is turning grey outside the colossal library windows
I’m hungry.
That kid in the corner keeps staring at me.
I have been here too long.
Valerie Brooke Jan 2010
A banquet of clouds dance a ballet with the sun
As the morning arrives and the birds awaken
It is quiet
Pure
Still in your robe
No makeup on your face
Watching the sun reveal itself from the horizon
The ocean is scattered with gold flakes
The birds rejoice at the marvel of it all
And take flight

— The End —