"flittered" poems
One brisk spring afternoon, a boy found himself adventuring down a local forested path. The sun beamed down through the trees, creating golden stips of light that fought their way through the newly grown greenery. The crunch of the earth beneath his feet could be heard from a distance as unimportant thoughts drifted through his mind.
He paused and set himself down on a large rock by a bubbling stream. The water created an ambiance that made a rush of calm flow over his mind. His eyes drifted around a bit, taking in his surroundings when suddenly a butterfly flittered down and flew around his face. A smile spread wide across his features as he lifted up his hand to try to catch it.
The butterfly grazed his hand, but then flew away as fast as it could, as it was afraid of the boy. He frowned in disappointment, wanting nothing more than the butterfly itself to flutter down onto his hand so he could admire it once more; But he was left in despair.
Two more butterflies of the same pattern found themselves drifting along the face of the boy, and he tried to catch them as well, for maybe they would fill in the gap that the first had left. He caught them both, but only briefly, as all butterflies were beautiful, but fleeting.
The boy tilted his head in disappointment, and sat there alone for some time, an array of butterflies coming and going, none of them filling the void left by the first.
Suddenly, a pure white moth came into view.
The boy scowled, unsure of what to make of the moth as it was nothing like the other butterflies that he had encountered before. The moth flittered around his face, and he raised his hands slightly, prepared to swipe the creature away.
The moth found itself landing softly on the nose of the boy, its fuzzy little wings tickling his skin upon contact.
He couldn’t help but smile, but felt a little uneasy, as he was only used to butterflies.
The boy lifted the moth gently from his nose, and perched it on a nearby branch. It’s little wings lifted its body from the perch, and tried to fly back toward the boy, but he gently shood the creature away. Finally, it gave up and landed itself back onto the branch in which the boy had placed it. There the moth stayed, watching the boy chase butterflies endlessly until he could chase no more.
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 10:08 PM UTC
Oh, sweet calico
You flittered and you fluttered
Before the cruel men
Pinned your wings, and held you
Under
Examining, every colour
And stripe, on your surface
Comparing, every pattern
You made
To a control they deemed
Ordinary
Their tongues were as rough
As their calloused hands
Yet their minds were like sharp knives
Or scalpels
Dissecting your
Entirety
Three green dots
You were marked with, before they placed you
Into a four by four
Box
And promptly
Forgotten about
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 10:24 PM UTC
Your Primrose blossomed in the Spring
frothy petals in the light flared
a brilliant hue your season to groom
I stitched a garland to pair
my green blades with your orbit,
blushing from your radiant glare
a satellite garnishing stray beams
My doting shadow, enfiladed
by the waxy glow of your stems,
entrenched around your lurid stalk
Vassal bands nestled below as
the sultry air bore your fragrance
to the tips of each driveling strand
Growing in your rendered space
light years from your radiant estate
milk weeds fawned at your feet,
but my encroaching shadow
and twining sickles
could not seal your comely face
In just a few days, the light
from your bright candle
flittered its last beam
your silky cheeks folded,
not from winter's cold stare
or the wind's shaking reins
Unencumbered by my embrace,
without flair or aplomb,
you cast your gilded parasol
to its shallow, un-dug grave
A decaying, still life brand
now shrouded my sodded feet
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
4/12/2016
"*Rappelez-vous l'objet que nous vîmes, mon âme,
Ce beau matin d'été si doux:
Au détour d'un sentier une charogne infâme
Sur un lit semé de cailloux?"
"My love, do you recall the object which we saw,
That fair, sweet, summer morn!
At a turn in the path, a foul carcass
On a gravel strewn bed?*"
Charles Baudelaire
I sat on the mossy footstool
that lied by the brook-
I had to really open my ears
to hear the soft regurgitation
coming from the clear muddy water, gliding over the slate,
piled up
the road, the one I drove on that one day we snuck out,
was placed gently beside it,
uptop a little cliff,
I felt this a beatific metaphor.
The air felt amorphous,
held a quality I couldn't quite
put my finger on.
and then I saw a tree,
a crooked one
who had seemed to grow
on the bank of the creek
because life, it seems, imitates art.
Its trunk dipped
until it ever so slightly grazed the water
its elm fingers
almost
almost.
I smiled when I saw this,
for it gave me hope.
I likened myself to the horseflies and new
tadpoles that flittered,
seraphic in quality,
borne with the quality of new life- the innocent quality
the one that just made me feel tainted, the more I surrounded myself with it.
The Friday afternoons on the avenue, with its port wine air
and this bubbling black slate brook
are the only places
that innocence lives-
if I had realized how quiet
the soft gargling of the cherub water was
I'd have stopped the car
and baptized ourselves
In it.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 3:31 PM UTC
I keep falling in love with ghosts
They flitter in and fade away
Three little spirits slipped wetly into my hands
****** and beautiful; we called each other family
The foundation cracked and poison filled the gaps
They used to laugh and call me daddy
Now…silence and estrangement
That name is reserved for another
Everything in my life was thrown into a heap
Misunderstanding and pain collided to spark the flame
I walk through this new reality, ash covering my feet
Yes, bartender, I’ll have another
And another
///
A wraith tall and handsome extended his hand in kindness
I reached with my entire being
Poured my heart into his chest
For a moment he washed me clean
We laid bodies entwined as poetry spilled from his lips
A summer zephyr under my wings
I was a phoenix
Balladry devolved to insult
He removes the dagger and ashes spill out
My brokenness is scattered everywhere
Yes, bartender, I’ll have another
And another
///
Splintered, scaly hands attempt to rebuild
A heavy mind sits in an empty room
Passing by houses filled with the ones I love
Never fingers to grace cheek again
I’ve become the stranger that can’t find a home
Saliva stretches as lips part
Lungs evacuate and heartbroken cries disappear into the sky
This hollowness haunts me like an apparition
Love…the ultimate curse
It’s previous forms have burned me to ash
Yes, bartender, I’ll have another
And another
.
.
.
I’m in love with ghosts
They flittered in and faded away
Aug 23, 2022
Aug 23, 2022 at 12:38 AM UTC
I used to follow butterflies
In days of green and blue
I’d totter in their lazy wake
As if for nothing better's sake
And listen to the cricket’s quake
To find out what they knew
I used to follow butterflies
Along their merry way
Their cooling wings were flittered dry
The colours seemed to amplify
I held my breath to see if I
Could make out what they say
I used to follow butterflies
Through nooks of tepid shade
To dance upon a patch of light
Upon a bloom, they paused their flight
To satisfy their appetite
Before the day should fade
I used to follow butterflies
So carefree as they flew
And every day I’d wish that I
Could follow them about the sky
I used to follow butterflies
And often, I still do
**
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 10:19 AM UTC
In no way
will I move
just to make
my ends meet
One thousand
of my finest
have flittered
to those with
the filthy gift
of serendipity
Perhaps I should
give it all up
my happiness
and well-being
to be replaced
by hard graft.
Mar 9, 2010
Mar 9, 2010 at 11:28 AM UTC
Little girl burned by desires
Go go in her head she loves a man
She is young and stupid
Naive, innocent and adventurous
Sneaking in the night she reaches the fone calls a lover that lay in bed elsewhere with a another woman
The deceit of her beauty drives her astray
To risk her future in blindness to fall for moments
How can i lert a proud heart majestic in high life to spend at all times the sweat of men as she never minded she was cementing her tomorrow.
I dont care she said...i can leave home...who cares i can abort.
But then who cares you can also die, she sees from near and focuses not afar.
Early in the morning the mother folds her back and hits the garden searching for surviving fighting for her daughter.
No she is flittered and gone her coaching books with her body I pause and tear.....
Such a generation
She says to all dont tell me what to do i have my chances to live, like a cat she believes in nine lives.
Her smooking temper alerts well wisher of help
Her clothes torn to many so she moves naked in their eyes only clothed to the unknown
The universe you ought to have will now have you
Will they be bygones or will it regrets
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 6:29 AM UTC
right now, I sit curled up on my couch, under a warm blanket shared with my swear heart
we listen to the soft roar of the crackling fire
feel its heat radiating from across the room
the reflection of an old christmas movie on our happy faces
black and white couples flashing across the screen
a girl with a present
a man with a cigar
a child looking at the toys through the window
it all looks so nice on our flat screen
the steam from our hot cocoa starts to fog up the screen
the acting wasn't that great anyway, might as well turn it off
"you wanna listen to She and Him, I have their new christmas album on vinyl."
I laugh at his hipster-ness
"of coarse"
"rockin' round the christmas tree"
he knew I loved Zooey's voice
"care to dance?" his voice like butter
and who can resist butter??
we glide across the carpet, almost stepping on the pets
everything was so perfect in his eyes
as they were inches closer and starting to close
I guess I should be doing that too
CONTACT
it was sweat like candy canes at first then salty like a ritz *******
but still good
we stumble over back to the couch, Little Saint Nick playing
the blanket is long gone now
I can feel his burning hands messing with my bra
his mouth caressing my collar bone
its off, along with every other piece of our clothing
now the tv screen is covered with a different steam
the cocoa spilled on over my legs
his hand on my head pushing me downward
hes too strong
just as I was about to give him something he would never forget we hear something from the fire place
it startled us both
after the black dust flittered down we saw two little black boots
and then heard the grunting of a man, much different than mine or my boyfriend's
could it...
no thats impossible!
is it?
before I could question what was going on he was there, in the room with us
santa
his face soon turning red after realized what he had stumble in on
he didn't say anything though, just walking over to the tree and put some small packages down
then left
as he rode away we could hear him shout
"MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!"
well this is awkward
Nov 16, 2012
Nov 16, 2012 at 1:02 AM UTC
His words ripped through the remnants of her shattered mind,
Winding through jagged edges of time.
They found old wounds, still gaping and wet.
They dove through her anger, loss and regret.
They flittered through tears and flinched through her pain,
And stumbled through roadblocks of distrust and disdain.
She felt herself wince in nostalgic regret,
These words that she remembered to always forget.
She opened her mouth but nothing came out.
She stuttered and paused but still verbal drought.
For a moment a tear tried to fight it's way through,
But couldn't escape her practical view.
Had she remembered too much or forgotten too few?
With a forced sense of pride, she prayed for reprieve,
A sigh, a laugh, for the tension to ease.
He stared at her, longing, his heart on his sleeve,
To know that his words she surely believed.
But silent she stood, her eyes drifting in doubt,
Knowing the words just wouldn't come out.
No matter the way she traveled at last,
It wasn't to him that her path was attached.
The regret in her voice was heavy and thick,
As she parted her lips to deliver it quick.
"My dear, my heart was never true...and sadly I can't say I Iove you too."
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 11:41 PM UTC
Born from death, he breathed his first.
Seventy-five years locked in the good night.
The memories of his past life flittered
past him
as he clawed his way through his grave.
First his hand touched the sweet air,
the wind dancing between his fingers.
He could feel his dusted veins flow
with the blood from his now beating heart.
His skin in places had rotted away
and he,
like the living dead
walked again on the earth
that he was never meant to tread upon again.
He stumbled into a small chapel
by the old graveyard
now over grown with wild flowers and pine saplings.
Walking in he saw people;
for the first time in years his dried eyes,
nothing but prunes in their sockets,
moistened and began to fill out.
His vision became clearer as he dragged himself along.
What a miracle this was, he thought to himself.
He was awed by the sights he saw around him.
The play of the sun
as it filtered through the stained glass windows
touched his heart so
that in that moment
he thought he would collapse into himself.
Was this truly real,
or was it simply another trick
played upon his imagination
as it often times did during his eternal sleep.
But it couldn’t be, could it?
Was this fantastical phenomenon happening
to him
or was it simply that he,
Andrew Taylor
had in fact defied the laws of nautre.
Again he took another step
and felt no qualms or aches of soul
while the people shied away from him
thinking him to probably have leprosy!
The very idea made him laugh,
the crackling sound
that voiced from his hole ridden lungs
surprised him and terrified them.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 7:22 AM UTC
That’s a Small Skipper
Jane said
And that’s a Clouded yellow
as two butterflies
flittered overhead
as you both lay
in the tall grass
on the side
of the Downs
and you followed
her finger
as it indicated
the butterflies’ flight
and then they were gone
and she gazed at you
and said
What?
How do you know
the names of things?
I’m a country girl
not a townie like you
she replied
her lips moulding
the words like a potter
moulds clay
and you caught a whiff
of her perfume
carried on the calm breeze
over your heads
and you looked
at her there
in the grass
her head turned back
to the sky
her eyes reflecting
the summer blue
and her left leg
bent upwards
so that her knee
stood naked
beneath the sun
and her right hand
lay next to yours
the white blouse
open at the neck
and she said
I often used to lay here
alone listening
to the overhead birds
and the winds’ moan
watching tractors
in the fields below
and mother wondering
where I was
And now?
you asked
Does she wonder
where you are now?
she turned her head
and gazed at you
No not now
she knows I’m with you
and that I’m showing you
the store of nature
and the panoramic view
And she trusts you?
you asked
sensing her hand
touch yours
the flesh warm
and soft
She trusts you
Jane said
and another butterfly
fluttered by
like a ballerina overhead.
Jun 29, 2012
Jun 29, 2012 at 7:44 AM UTC
She asked me how she had come to me
On a sunny afternoon,
She couldn’t remember anything,
Her memories had flown.
She looked in awe at the dress she wore
And the sparkles on her shoes,
‘I didn’t have any of these before,
But what have I got to lose?’
I had her in mind for a Faery Queen
Or maybe a party girl,
I hadn’t a plot to fit right then
But thought I’d give her a whirl.
She had such grace and a lovely face
So I thought she’d fit right in,
And later, plenty of colour for
My lepidoptera tin.
She flittered and fluttered about the field
While I got my butterfly net,
She’d probably still be fluttering
If I hadn’t caught her yet.
But that’s how I catch my characters
That I fit in every plot,
I chase them round and I bring them down
Whether they want, or not.
The women are always butterflies,
The men are usually moths,
I struggle to keep the women sweet
But sometimes they are Goths.
As long as they play their part so well
That the reader doesn’t twig,
That all my casts are butterflies,
The small parts and the big.
For villains I use the Death’s Head Moth
For his markings are so grim,
But the innocent girls in chiffon are
The first to let him in,
He’s mean and cunning, and not so sweet
As the ones he seeks to fool,
But I am only the writer, so
Their conflict is my gruel.
I need to go where the sun is bright
And they flutter in the breeze,
To hold my butterfly net upright
And pursue them through the trees.
Then one day soon in the afternoon
I shall write a plot that sings,
And catch me a lepidoptera,
The one with the brightest wings!
David Lewis Paget
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 3:23 AM UTC
it were the combination
of monsoon deluge
and gale force hurricane
broke me free
sent me to spinning
twirled for what must’ve been a year
before touchdown
even this was turbulent
as I rapidly descended
the high mountain canyon
tossed over slick black rocks
drifting faster and faster
when all ahead was blue
clouds and birds flittered
time froze
unlike my previous freefall
this was abusive
streams pummeled my body
frayed my edges
left me soaked to the core
I washed, after a time, upon a sandy beach
barely conscious…
once I had served a great Oak
gathering sunlight
these memories swirled like the adjacent eddy
slowly, like daybreak for the farmer
a realization took shape
never again would I photosynthesize
never again would ladybugs crawl across my face
I had lost my home
It was near that same moment
when a new vision filled my senses
upon my decomposition
and death
I would feed the forest
my nutrients living in the soil forever –
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 12:39 PM UTC
Put your finger
along there
Jane said
gently
and she opened
her hands
to form
a kind of cup
and there
was the butterfly
yellowish with white
it opened and closed
its wings
feel the smoothness
she said
I focused
on her palms
the skin
thinking how lucky
the butterfly was
to land there
I gently touched
its wings
with my finger
gently so as not
to make it
fly off
she was intense
gazing at my finger
the wings opening
and closing
my finger
was a mere
breath away
from touching
her skin
the warmth
of her palms
I leaned in closer
could smell
apples or fresh air
and her dark eyes
turned on me
and I looked back
at the butterfly
and stroked its
wings again
it flapped
and flew off
and I watched it
go passed
her dark hair
her eyes following it
in the air
and I followed
her hair
the dark and straight
the opened necked blouse
the green skirt
isn't it beautiful?
she said
yes very much so
I said
gazing at
the line of her neck
the area
where her hair
and collar
didn't meet
the jawline
and she
was looking up
at the sky
where the butterfly
flittered amongst
nearby flowers
at the foot
of the Downs
so gentle their wings
she said
she imitated
a butterfly
with her hands
the thumbs
hooked together
flapping her hands
out and in
and looked at them
then at me
should I stroke
the wings?
I said
she smiled
flapping
her hands slowly
so I did
stroking slowly
and gently
the outer line
of palm
with my finger
and she gazed at me
then at my finger
her small tongue
at the corner
of her mouth
beyond her
the butterfly
flittered off
the white and yellow
exchanging
as it went away
my finger
moving up and down
then slowly
moving
like the butterfly
a little bit away.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 2:05 AM UTC
The flame from the candle
Flickers frantically in fear
Of the howling winds
That sounds frighteningly near
I clutched my teddy bear tight
And tried to rein in my fright
But the howling continues
To roar with all it's might
Then suddenly I remembered
Something my mother used to say
When your frightened or lonely
Let your happy thoughts come out to play
So I closed my eyes
And remembered a time
Of dancing in the willows
And finding apple trees to climb
Of picking pink and yellow flowers
to braid into my long hair
And chasing colorful butterflies
As they flittered in the air
Outside, the howling winds quieted
and I know now and then
When I am scared or lonely,
Happy memories will rescue me again
Apr 17, 2011
Apr 17, 2011 at 10:19 AM UTC
I never realized
How many birds
There really are
They seem to melt
Into the landscape
As they hop
To and fro
In the manicured
Suburban shrubs
And pepper the sky
Floating in place
Against some unfelt
Wind current
While walking
I locked gazes with
A slate colored dove
And we stared
I don't know how
He felt about me
Or what he felt
About me
I thought he was
Elegant
Even though he was
The color of fresh tar
While it bakes
In the Pennsylvania sun
In some hazy culdesac
In the corner of some
Replaceable
Reproducible
Childhood
He hopped off his perch
A rusty sign post
That had been bifurcated
By some unknown
Bolt or hand
And skittered behind some
Sickly looking ferns
In a dirt patch of an
Unknown neighbors yard
A gang of Robins
Flittered over my head
Landing down the street
Passing a pinecone
Between them
Pecking and tearing at it
I looked behind
The sickly ferns
And found the
Unknown neighbors cat
Doing the same thing
To my slate colored dove
I shooed it away
It dropped the dove
Hastily
In the loose dirt
And retreated
I looked down at the dove
And it laid there
Its breast heaving
Silent
One eye cast into the dirt
The other looking up
Watching the same Robins
Fly back to where
They had come from
And the slate slowly
Turned sanguine
As its down became
Saturated with the
Run off from the
Puncture wounds
The cat sat off
A few yards away
Flicking its tail
Calico and smug
And I stood by
The dove as
The heaving slowly
Stopped
Ground to a
Halt really
And then the eyes
Weren't looking
At the sky or the dirt
I finally felt
That unseen
Wind
And continued
On my way
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 9:38 PM UTC
Hey ... Out there
I'm worried about my wife
Could somebody please take her a message
Tell her everything will be ok
Man I don't know
This has just been a really weird day
That much I can truly say
Because I lived it
Let's see... I got up as usual at 5 a.m.
Like always I kissed her cheek
She never knows I do it ... I've asked
But I like it because she mumbles in her sleep
What she says or doesn't say matters not
Is the little smile that appears that I'm after
I catch it in my cortex and then slowly let it seep
Into every fiber of my being
As I deal with my working day
Sometimes it's like it's a 3D image
Floating right out in front of me
Usually when some wackadoo corporate ****
Is making it extra hard for me continue to be
A puppet
Yeah that's right
Then if you don't understand it
Chances are you're probably White
Now I'm not lumping you all together
Though I can say this much for sure
You will never understand my existence
And what each day I must endure
This day has just been plain stupid
I know of no other word to express
The way a simple stop to pick up milk
For my twin girls breakfast can become such a mess
Put your hands above your head
Get on your knees
Don't move or I'll shoot you
Get down on your knees
For a Split Second Abbott and Costello
Flittered through the Kaleidoscope behind my eyes
And I think it was that little smile that that created
Was what sealed my eternal fate
Those cops just shot me I said
So why do I not feel any pain
The slow staccato echo of gunshots
23 times I counted - again and again and again
Crazy man - this is just crazy
So I say again to the man pushing the Gurney
Just before they load me into the ambulance
Just after they pull the blanket over my head
Hey you out there I'm worried about my wife
I don't know...what
she and the girls will do now... Now that I am dead
Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 6:03 AM UTC
I had ceral for breakfast yesterday
I went drove over and put seven dollars
Worth of gas in my tank
That's all I can really afford
Then I drove over to the golf course
I was going to hit a few putts
But instead I just parked in the shade
With my feet out the window
I drove by my house
To see if they had left yet
I wasn't in the mood
For a family outing
I parked a few block beneath
My street in the shade
Covered my car
With the cover
And made my way
To the trail
By the golf course
I used a long branch
To reach golf ball
Above me
On a little hill
I am a golf ball collector
I sat on my yoga mat
Underneath the shade
Of a tree
I noticed a sparrow hawk
Land in an oak tree
I zoomed in to take a picture
And it flittered away
I made my way back to the car
And drove home
I figured I would have
An hour or so before
They got back
From the movie
I had the other half
Of the double double
And small chocolate milkshake
I consume those items
Over two days
Because they are
A bit unhealthy
I began my walk down
To the gym
I wrote "America is doomed"
And Jade Helm
With a fruit and that green plant
Jade Helm is a cover
For the military takeover
Of the southwestern U.S.
Alex Jones has been told
By hgh level military sources
I stopped and sat underneath
A tree on the median
Small pink flowers
Had bloomed
And these little white
Fluffy seeds were falling
As I looked up
I climbed the tree
Look at me
I'm a monkey in the tree
I laid back againt the tree
And put my legs up
I spent quite some time up there
Waving to the people as they drove by
To be continued...
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 12:47 PM UTC
The coffee shop reeked of introspection
It was quiet but noisy at the same time
From slight chattering that flittered the patio to cars battling in traffic
She felt like she finally belonged
The smell of coffee thrilled her
She would romanticize each cup
Just the thought of hot steam curling around her lips as they pressed against the lovely mug made her quiver
She was never very patient
Every sip would slightly burn her tongue
But that never seemed to bother her
She valued the little things
Each sip, exhibited a moment of warmth, relief, and sincerity
In between each sip, her mind found relief
After each sip, sincerity found itself to be ironically bitter
It was 82 degrees and she found her coffee to be just as warm as the sun
Too busy romanticizing the view around her
She burnt her tongue once again
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 6:22 PM UTC
Grubeldy whipwacker
Wankelnish flopjet
Humbuddy trunkfish
‘n flibbeldy jibbet
Toncash in Quershramp
‘bout rambley dooerknot
But mershing drengle wobble pip
O’er zanesies lil ole funsher
Pappim with Margine
flittered digtastically
trippingness maze corn
at junterknees rompum
willaby frungwash I e’er
the moors butiffn lashrash
habeldung rungrats at menelrites wing
slipper in trumble ut munkers wingwilly
trilly filly wit em millet in mullet
goobels yamper ropt un globlet
killygard flankrich
brumbldee dompish –
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 4:43 PM UTC
With hushed mouths that brushed when they talked
They whispered like thieves stealing from the Garden of Eden.
Little did I know
He was stealing from my chest
With nimble hands that flittered delicately over quieted lungs
And eyes that acted like they'd seen tragedy.
And she only looked at me
Smug, grim, a hair-width's away from sympathy perhaps
But my stomach wasn't used to handling his sweetened breath
Throat constricting around a word
Oh! what a word!
One that brought mountains upon the heads of ogres
Upon the tusks of boars and piggish men
Wouldn't you have assumed I might as well be dead
Because you stole my heart as if it was on it's last beat
It's last wild attempt to leap from my chest
Alas, my throat was tied around love,
A simple word
That rained hell upon the heavens and
Dread upon a heavy hanging ruin
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 10:23 PM UTC
If one man counted the Stars in the sky,
until each one was named,
Our Star would have flittered and faded.
He has no one left to blame.
JWS
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 6:43 AM UTC