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CharlesC Jun 2013
In morning sun
yellow-green leaves
black branches
such contrasts flow..
yellow sun warmth
seems to pull..
pulls the sensations
fullness and growth
and makes nature
luxuriant once more..
hidden chirpers note
the dawning of
summer...
Katie J Jul 2012
Ocasionally, on a breezy night, when
the winds are blowing through.
I listen as the grasshoppers chirp, and
paint the morning dew.

And In the morning when
the chirping choir has gone their seperate ways
I hear the clouds rumbling in
to bring the afternoon some shade.

Soon the clouds grow darker, as
they hide the sun from sight.
Bringing out the glorious moon,
and turning day to night.

Then the winds start howling,
calling out their names.
Bringing out the night time chirpers,
to sing their song again.
Mia Mehnaz May 2020
The blackbirds know my secrets all too well
That I am just a kid who grew up too fast
Felt my earth tremble and my sky crumble
Too soon to savour the fleeting taste of joy                              
That I was born with coal in my veins.
The waning moon has seen me cry
And has cradled me in its ***** and
Taught me that my chaos is not fruitless, it has
Painted my life with colour and purpose
My wild heart has tasted the society-poisoned
Make-believe elixir of love
I was kidnapped from reality because
I left the door to my soul slightly ajar,
That is how it begins, engulfed
In memories and if-onlys and I am
Dancing with the ghosts in my head.
I should revert to loving poetry, music, sunsets
You see, even the chirpers outside my window at
Dawn were silent with grief and turmoil
The day my golden heart blackened and broke.
Well let the roses wilt grey and the moon
Fracture in two because I will not stop
Loving or feeling or existing too much
These tears are fireworks doused in a sea of hope and
I am made of stardust and rainwater and pain
And my beauty lies in the many, many pieces of my heart.
Heartbreak, love, grief, loss, life- they're all just psuedonyms for lies and pain
Eyen F Dec 2019
They grow thicker,
longer, stronger;
they grow leaves,
birds come and lay on the tips,
each chanting a melody, different in taste;
the wind helps to record
the whistling of the morning;
of the dawnings, a grail
for a realize and beckon
take hold of the branches,
holding you hostage.

The birds come and go,
a fuzzy, warm chirping;
the crickets start screaming,
the chirpers have vanished;
they've turned into dark
and unknown, stabbing beaks.

At the center of it all,
an alarming red bulge
pumps the sun's golden blood
into our every root;
the apple's pride shines
with every dawn that goes by.

Nature, it grows old too.
Time runs and looks nowhere,
the chants are now logical:
a pentagram whose notes
drew long gone smiles;
tall and short figures, virtuous voices
sung a screeching, echoing tune of old.

The apple rots,
the branch is weakened,
numb.
The apple falls.
Holed, bitten.
Begotten, frail and forgotten.
A black worm infests it
like a pungent, stabbing dagger.
Its wound whistles a cold cry of pain,
a farewell whine;
a final goodbye.

— The End —