"succumbs" poems
A horror movie scene as the heroine escapes.
Everything is still besides her convalescing breath and the distant, chasing wind.
Not a noise is heard except the fall leave's rattle and the birch wood's moaning bark in the moonlight.
Her body slouches into the protection of a lone shed, and shrouds itself in the aroma of cut grass.
A tense brow relieves and tired eyes close, thankful to receive the momentary peace.
A possible misstep turns the wary peace on end with the jagged cut of broken leaves. The once relieved brow now concedes surprise as wild eyes are cast towards an opaque barricade.
Sly pieces of garden equipment leash a weathered jacket in place as she attempts to stand.
A cackle is heard, a shriek undone.
To spite the brittle wood, the formulaic jump-scare-skeleton-hand bursts through the shed's solicitous walls, set to declare the last of a weary soul as his own.
The wind catches up and spearheads any hole it can find.
It begins whistling around the dim room like a tornado elated to havoc behind a castle's walls.
The tree bark howls, the leaves, now delight.
We learn there is no reprieve for a begging champion.
The camera backs out of the splintered hole, and pans over a silhouetted forest to face the waning moon.
The hero succumbs with muted screams to a gore far below and out of frame.
Our only closure, a black screen, with bright white letters, slowly scrolling up.
The end.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 10:52 PM UTC
If I could tell you,
every thing you want to know,
I would,
but my walls are to hard to take down,
but every time,
you speak to me,
they crumble to the ground,
and i hope, you'll be by my side,
when death succumbs to me...
beautiful boy who cares,
you sing a song that only I can hear,
I cant get enough of you,
the happy little messages you send to me,
i cant explain,
you aren't like other boys.
oh, beautiful boy,
I've never felt this way before!
all the other girls and boys I've been with,
i never truly love this hard,
you understand my darkness,
you under stand my deadly thoughts,
Oh walk through the strawberry fields with me,
saying nothing is real,
walking on starlight and dancing in moon dust,
your hair capturing the shine of the night,
i want to give you the universe,
and hold your hand,
falling through the sun by your side,
capturing the light of your eyes,
picture yourself,
falling through time,
what thoughts will flow through your mind?
your hands held in mine,
in synchronized meditation,
open up your third eye,
were your atoms next to mine?
did our souls entwine?
picture yourself,
laying in a field of grass,
with your head next to mine,
watching the butterflies glide,
the seasons are changing,
are you still next to me?
with the leaves off the trees,
this isn't electric,
this is calm,
with explosive colors,
i'm not falling,
i'm walking,
i'm willingly going to you...
are you walking to me?
do you picture it too?
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 1:37 PM UTC
Honesty the lost art/
Honesty is rare
it should cost a lot/
It would be sublime if
We could find it/
Honestly, honesty is the best policy/
We should treasure the
thought cherished engulfed/
combined with
Loyalty
till death do us part/
I yurn
The lies tiring
like ones sleepy
lay down Suffocating to a corpse/
Thought is boss
employ by it
We're all guilty I guess/
Liar liar in court
A sentient being-ness/
Troth be told
I can't believe in this/
Question,
Am I the only one seeing this?/
Or only me blind and ain't Seeing ****
I try and **** it out
its epidemic, Chronic/
The remedy Poetry Hop
Visual Sonnets/
**** naked in
My correspondence/
Articulating articles
Waiting for responses/
Is it a defense mechanism
Of the conscious/
Honesty? Honestly/
Seems like everyone's
Not doing it so its gotta BE/
Non honesty
The ever lasting Prophecy/
And were full filling it
The good succumbs
To the villainous/
My willingness/
To compromise my will
I guess/
You could interpret as weak/
Most realize
the Inside scoop
Yet everyone tells lies
non interested in truth/
Me, a victim and a suspect
An on going cycle yet/
I ask what's next/
as if I didn't know
Where the L lies underlying Facts can't grow/
HonestLy, we all lose an L to Honesty!
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 1:44 AM UTC
rich with the depth
and intensity
of oxidized blood,
a plushness caresses my bare skin.
my fingers tracing against the grain of the fabric
slowly seducing
as the canvas
becomes duo chrome
the tip of my finger
a nymph
cunning and artful
the strokes
offering an insatiable
thirst
yet so in control
finally it succumbs
turning a tide of new color
permeating from where my touch once was
a culmination of sorts
leaving you enamored.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 8:04 PM UTC
Autumn is a sturdy man
Eager to take your clothes off
What a mess he will leave on the floor
Some dignity hanging on
For as long as possible
But he gets bolder by the day
Complacent to stay.
Autumn is a coy woman
Eager to wear the colors of desire
What a sight she leaves for the beholder
Some courage to resist
As you blow her a kiss
But before she succumbs
She is promised a firework.
Autumn is a seductive game
Here to devour her right away
While withholding for her is foreplay
His approach is raw
She delays her fall
She wanted it to last
But he came too fast.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 12:22 PM UTC
I was never looking into you
I was only pouring an image of myself onto your canvas
Of course I didn’t know
it was me looking into me
this was the mirage of my desire
always in the shape of a question mark
and you
a sweeping mystery
oozing something toeing the peculiar line between *** and titanium (cold, edgy, sharp - trembling
between pain and principle
like blazer and tie
or more like halfway-unbuttoned-shirt-and-slacks on-with-no-tie
(it was like you were making an effort!))
It was ***
but it also wasn’t ***
(I am empty
I am full)
I keep building up and up and up
all these images in my Mind
(which never shuts up)
(a never-ending narrative
She spins and spins and succumbs
only in those rare and passing circumstances)
constructing people like buildings
only the scaffolding is imaginary and when
the architecture folds in on itself
soulless
and my beloved figurines come toppling down on me
why do I still get so surprised
so stung
so lonely in that
hollow and distant way
(like your Mind is echoing
in on
Itself)?
My Mind is like quicksand
devouring streams of memory with ease
forever unsatisfied and craving more of the same
sharp edges and all
praying for a satiation in some distant future
She knows will never come
Only here
in this tiny universe
can I spell out anything resembling rationality
from the mess and junk and tangled tendrils of my Mind
Only here
can I extract bits and pieces of thoughts
and try to puzzle them together
until they make sense
until I can separate “Me” from “Reality"
And what doesn’t make sense
what I need to understand
is why I feel so beset
with this heavy magnetism that
overpowers me to the point of
paralysis
(with little to no room for breathing)
and why it was you
who pushed me into this feeling
and you
who is still pulling me along
far past the threshold of my resistance
and I am done
and it stings
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 12:51 PM UTC
Her master towers over her with his hefty might.
His eyes pierce through the shadows.
Commanding and bold, he startles her.
However, she capitulates to his aura.
She succumbs to his will, a willing slave.
Confined by his power, she cannot behave.
His words are tender, his touch like a feather,
she pines for his control, her soul in his hand.
In the dungeon of rapture, they explore their appetite.
Her master, like a bat, hovers over the dim light.
Sweeps her with his wings to a waltz of submission.
And takes her to the ride of darkness and delight.
A coating of fear decorates her face.
He surprises her with acts that leave her afraid.
She is hesitant to continue her master’s calling.
But her body is dissimilar, peachy, and pulsating.
Her master takes her on a trip of ****** events.
Where she gasps with fright, moans with pain,
and pleasures herself to the sound of the rain.
He takes what he wants; she surrenders it all.
He puts her in her place with words of degradation.
Then showers her with warmth and affection.
Her master kisses her, just like aftercare.
In each other’s arms they find solace in times of despair.
May 24, 2024
May 24, 2024 at 3:56 PM UTC
The first thinkers were poets
Naming Mother Earth
Beginning symbolic thinking
Of nature, death and birth
Though themes are often repeated
Love, Beauty and God
Poetry in the guise of Religion
A prophet or a fraud
The poet resurrects the Primitive
Through allegory and similes
Disarming the unknown like explorers
Sublime Prophets and Visionaries
They must lay bare those treasured images
That must be expressed
Unraveling and revealing the sounds
At each soul’s behest
Encompassing the entire Cosmos
So lyrical the beat
The poet’s excitement flows outward
Laid at the Reader’s feet
So original, individual
She won’t examine or explain
Letting go the festering feelings
Disturbances in her brain
He exposes his dark, wounded psyche
Just to release and express
Such capacity to see and compare
Hyperbole at its best
I love, I hate, I suffer
A special dance in rhythm and rhyme
The poet as a buffer
Lessening the pain and sting of time
Laden with symbol and feelings
She gives you sweet relief
From something urgent, revealing
Confusion to belief
Through a cinematic kind of seeing
The poet purges to transform
By leaping through Alice’s looking glass
She never was one to conform
Quite intolerant of convention
Just like The Mad Hatter
His passions immune to all logic
In syncopated patter
Jamming up the poet’s mind
Struggling for expression
Seeking order out of chaos
An infantile regression
Cleaving to his imaginary world
The poet breaks out into words
Creating sound paintings to be unfurled
So his own agony is blurred
She succumbs to storms of passion
With instinctive techniques
Rhymes and rhythm still in fashion
Out of hand flows mystique
The poet mines from his unconscious
The Reader is not blind
For every single line and symbol
Means something to the mind
Causing an inner liberation
Enlightenment or flight
It is a matter of life and death
When darkness turns to light.
Nov 14, 2016
Nov 14, 2016 at 6:55 PM UTC
You have no idea
What it's like, to be a woman
Everyday is a baptism by fire
As she walks on the street
Hundred hands appear
From nowhere, as if conjured
By a deft flick
Of a magician's wand
A magician who sends chills
Down the length of her spine
Chills that surpass even those
On a wintry night in Antarctica
Leaving her frozen
Till every bone stands still
As she is stripped of her dignity
Reduced to a shadow of her self
She strains every sinew in her throat
As she sends out a distress signal
Which fails to be intercepted
As the people look on
Some with fear
Some with sheer indifference
Some with a perverse interest
But none answer the call of duty
The call which is as basic
As the need for oxygen
You have no idea
What it's like, to be a woman
As she heads home
Seeking much needed solace
She is instead upbraided
For wearing a short skirt
For walking alone in the night
For not being a lady
As she fails to get support
From the family she holds dear
As a shipwreck survivor
Barely floating in freezing waters
Clings on to that piece of wood
Her self-esteem nosedives
Like that fateful Air India flight
That crashed at Mangalore
And shifts the blame onto herself
For not understanding the men
Who've brought her to this state
And succumbs to Stockholm Syndrome
Completing a vicious circle
Leaving men and the patriarchy winners
Winners who deserve the title
As much as a student
Who clears his trimesters
Using bits of paper
Tucked neatly inside his shoes
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 1:20 AM UTC
With our extremities entwined
two pairs of digits, stroke in kind.
One pair, painted.
The other, dirt.
One of us delicate.
The other, dirt.
A soft and fragrant anticipation
succumbs to an accrid and earthy
magnetic like hold. . .
Hold. . .
Hold. . .
Thankyou Sweetheart,
you were great.
I'm going,
are you *******
Poetry by Kaydee.
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 12:25 PM UTC
I found serenity
as I drown myself
in these salty tears
Ripples
severe the kind of longing
that succumbs
every part of my insides
In your absence
so perniciously
suffocating
my frail heart indulge
in these surge of montage
vivid memories of you
radiant,
warm,
ecstatic
I relinquish
-Longing, Margaret Austin Go
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 12:30 PM UTC
Shrek is love, I told them, Shrek is dreck, they answer.
So I make this poem, to give them the cancer.
Shrek is life, I’m groaning, while they’re battering me.
I don’t care, I’m flying, over the devilry.
I don’t care that I bleed, because my Shrek is here.
I know he’s behind me, with strong ogre muscles.
He will venge what they did, and feel them with sweet fear.
Stronger than an army, he’s only leaving skulls.
But what if he succumbs, what if he expires ?
No, you cannot get him, he is stronger than God.
Wonder from where he comes, maybe he pulls the wires.
The bullies were all gone, thanks to my green best friend.
And just for all he’s done, friendship does never end.
Shrek is love, Shrek is life, and Shrek is everywhere.
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 9:19 AM UTC
When, instead of cozying in bed
I wander out there with Kerouac,
Imagining that I am Kerouac
Or some slave who walks upright;
Or a priest without a crowd
With hands and feet tied.
When, instead of snoring like hell,
I am left unimaginative by some;
I am making disgusting Love with shadows unknown
And remain pinned against the wall.
I am some nine year old senile who wets her bed
in fear and disbelief.
Lights flicker and then fade
And the switch becomes a button pressed to send
Someone in raving comfort.
I am not a stranger to sleepless nights
Even when night becomes noon.
Nightmares haunt me no more but I
Am left haunted by my bed.
Sheets crumpled by tossing and turning.
My bed does not recognize my warmth.
Voice recordings and constant tweetings
Pump blood to my Über active head.
Sleepless nights are well received as my body
Succumbs to sleep.
I live in a different world with five hundred other names
And the ten thousand other Me’s are all in disarray.
(And when the clock chimes at one, two, three ‘til way down six,
There’s a carnival of sorts with hair strands flailing like
Seven sets of arms.)
I am not a stranger to sleepless nights
And wetting my bed is not a Sin.
I am sinful beyond recognition, as my bed is my witness.
I have had different beds
But to me, they’re all the same.
Some, soft; others, too hard
Or covered in satin, exaggerated by the moonlight. Some, made of wood
While others, with tight springs.
Water’s absurd but so is steel.
Double padding, triple linings, four feet, at times, none;
There’s the car, the guest room, the floor, hospital bed,
A seat next to a complete stranger ---
I make my bed before sleeping
And leave it when I’m done.
I am not a stranger to sleepless nights
And I jump on the bed at midnight.
I am not a stranger to morning tides and the morning shows on TV.
I’m not a stranger at all, no,
And when I sleep, I sleep in peace.
Stranger things have happened
Noons and sudden weekends are no way sleep - inducing; I am left believing
That nights and days dance in my
Sleeplessness.
May 23, 2012
May 23, 2012 at 8:19 PM UTC
death mourns a life
that succumbs to suicide...
classical lawless-ness?
calls the jyst...
a thieving;
a stolen death,
a suicide....
bride riddled to a bridge...
baking...
left half awake and half baked...
you count with the number of
blinding equations...
your 80+ segments?
i want nothing to be part of,
whether polymath,
bilingual, or polymath...
you resd yourself into "it"....
fuck you, and...
**** off...
in terms of .gif ***** files...
no... the part where
we don't parrot?
for no worthwhile surprise!
death is alal b & w...
memory?
all invigorating sepia...
life?
the blooming of color...
you take shrooms,
to invigorate the colors?!
oh look...
you're as loony as me...
and why would i
give a **** about your
tall-tales of subversive religiosity?!
you're right!
like you have been with me
to begin with...
there aren't any!
now?!
suffer!
you're in good hands...
turns out?!
i'm a sadist...
i somehow tested the pain on myself...
i enjoy...
the pain, of others,
having, prior, teased the pain
on, myself!
i forgot teasing the pain...
i taste it...
i welcome it...
i've become welcoming
in allowing it,
a stature abbreviating a transcendence
of victim-hood!
i need pain,
to craft an erasure of ever having
the capacity to instruct
a modus operandi for pleasure!
death contra suicide...
a fact contra a premature contest
of pleasure...
suicide is what
death calls thief...
there is no moral artifact
of a "question"...
suicide is the thief,
when death is the executioner...
what moral question is
to be entertained?
non!
i can't blame the mortality
arsonist...
less Tartarus and more Gehenna...
less S.S. and more khaki
S.A. night of the broken windows
and less...
hyper-Hindu
reincarnation,
hue hue grey...
woo woo the ashen pillage...
no... i'm not here for the
cinder and the ********
it's enough that i drink
the sort of excuse,
that sober people could hardly make
excuses about...
and that's enough...
and enough, is, where i'll stick to.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 10:22 PM UTC
Numbing pain; headache tablets full in a mouth,
speedy replies, and local loves. I love the rush.
I broke my heart for a crush.
Reminder: life is a little too
rough.
But I'm acting tough, close to the lines of messing up.
Always about to cuss. I swore it was the last,
but that's just a whispering bluff.
Enough of myself, too full of
myself every time I
laugh.
I spend hours thinking about random stuff; to huff
and puff, and blow away my best love. And we
both love spending hours talking about
some random
stuff.
She's had enough, with pure innocence of a dove.
And I'm the one sinning on her behalf. She's the
better half; but still a kid at heart, acting
tough. She's a calf, domesticated from
her wild love from her
past.
We're tragically in love, not from above or succumbs;
pushing time into each other, as it will shove.
Holding necks with a love glove, it has me
so choked up. In the first line of
love being a
drug.
Jun 6, 2022
Jun 6, 2022 at 3:00 PM UTC
In a lonely place succumbs.
To my childhood till this day.
Carves the age of longevity.
When colors were once remained.
Blue captured eyes like fame.
Streets pathed along the way—
Guiding to a melancholy lane.
In times of November breeze.
Boat by boat each one sail's,
The building's growing moss—
that cries the tears of rain.
Slipping like a sultry state,
Washing what can never stay.
Filling through but twas too late.
To the race walking in romans.
Sparkles every narrative palm.
Marigolds that lead their way,
The cold traded from warm.
Everybody's longing a friend.
Dark night was a weeping tomb,
In places were life meets the end.
Dec 17, 2017
Dec 17, 2017 at 8:33 AM UTC
What joy calls Silent Noise plagues me too
As the new love in young hides behind the sun
The House of Monaco burns
it is a simple matter
and joy pretends in two and three
She accuses that it is all in the eyes
Loosely veiling self doubt in the idealism of love
Complexity contradicts and she gives up
Preferring to live inside
It wants what it wants and Joy succumbs
drinking water she knows is poison
You are not a hopeless romantic Joy
You are a Romantic
You are all Woman
And twice as amazing
-The Zone
Your **** has torn my hinges off..... obliterated my door
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 1:07 PM UTC
My brother whispers goodbye with one last glimpse,
and I haven't seen him ever since,
My sister succumbs to the pressure of life,
and she felt the caress of our mothers favorite knife,
My father watched his family twist,
So he found his own way to sink into merciful bliss,
My mother fears being ignored,
So she sang a song, tuned to a heartbreaking chord,
And my friends won't look away,
But I know they want to be free someday,
Of the pressure of their homes,
Look left, look right, we're all alone,
And we take refuge in our sanctuary,
Even if it is illusionary, even if it's just temporary,
Just to reveal our hidden thoughts,
To finally talk about everything we lost,
To maybe discover next times price,
To come here maybe once or twice,
But in the end, we'll always return home,
Because despite everything that everyone knows,
Home will always be home.
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 3:02 PM UTC
Sweet was the ancient tale once told,
Of star-born realms and skies above,
When primal hearts, though proud and bold,
Still held the thread of love.
From rose-hued lands where dreamers grew,
No scorn arose, nor warlike word.
‘Twixt cultures old, the wise and true
A gentle peace was heard.
The sea lay calm, the waves moved slow,
While birds sang high on salted air.
The stars, the moon, and myths below
Drew hearts with gentle care.
When Orpheus, with lyre in hand,
Could charm the trees and still the shore,
He sang not just of death’s dim land,
But love that dared for more.
And songs poured out, both wide and bright,
Unbound by ticking clocks or schemes.
A joy unspoiled by neon light
Still stirs in silent dreams.
No noise, no screen, no hollow glow,
Just fireside tales and open skies
A world less fast, yet rich to know,
Where wonder met the eyes.
But now, a broken engine hums,
Where whispers clash and meanings blur.
Though minds are fed, the heart succumbs
In dreamy shadows stir.
This modern sprawl, in steel-clad guise,
Sees freedom drown and ruins swell.
While gilded dame with cunning eyes,
Buys silence, sells the shell.
Sweet childhood homes that most recall,
Still mourn the loss of treasured views.
While elders chase the siren’s call,
The Futures drown in hues.
O bitter jest, this march of mind,
That trades the soul for hastened days.
Where hearts and minds are redesigned
By profit’s clever maze.
Progress cloaked where truths are wrung
May blind the heart and charm the tongue;
But in the hush, old songs are sung
Still bold, still clear, still young.
Naturae consors esto
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 10:02 PM UTC
Things are quite rocky in today's world wouldn't you say?
Hate is growing stronger, as a consequence love is waxing cold day by day.
Celebrities are securing riches while the rest of the world succumbs into sickness.
Everyday Americans are going into foreclosure, others can't obtain jobs to pay their monthly dues. There's even a battle on the news based on who has the right to use a particular bathroom. Simultaneously there's millions of homeless people starving and sleeping on the streets.
Meanwhile it's breaking news that Beyonce is having twins!
Still, we never hear CNN mention the pedophiles that were arrested in California. Which resulted in 450+ arrests and counting, the veil has been lifted if you have open eyes to look.
There, there you can go back to sleep now... Continue dreaming about Beyonce's twins.
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 2:56 AM UTC
Incessant thought.
Crowded, cold.
Inevitable but true.
Searching for,
looking, or
Tore because of you.
Raining worries
fly amongst
the fairies filled with lies.
Gaining ground,
Silent sound.
Your smile begs a rise.
The spoken word,
the needed truth,
succumbs to selfish ways.
Blindfolded will,
despite the thrill,
subconsciously count the days.
Insanity prevails.
Decisions like whales.
Slow, and not precise.
Let them eat cake,
laughter they bake,
I don't care for a slice.
Despite all the thought,
optimistic intentions,
I still color my heartstrings blue.
Confused by this feeling,
******** drug dealing.
Inevitable, but true.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 11:45 AM UTC
All things die
All kingdoms fall
Every waking hour
Incessantly recall
Grim reaps all
Drip by drip
Burn
Till wicks end
Choice, who here decides?
Pleasure beguiles, sets purpose via
Once voice strewn, lost through
Millions of cries in the continuum
Each time you blink your eyes
There is a glimpse
Behold! Nothingness!
Slaves to your own demise
What's the point prolonging?
When you are coming forth by day
Grim reaps all
All the while vitality escapes
Eternity succumbs to imminences of fate
Familiar pulsating rhythms will terminate
So what's the point?
Grim reaps us all
Coming forth by day
Aug 16, 2011
Aug 16, 2011 at 8:16 AM UTC
a darkness dances
into the crevices
where the squirrels once raised their young
across the gangly branches;
where the birds once perched and sung
introducing the morning sky.
the leaves, which once sheltered the ants
from rain which poured upon their work.
the lively and diverse ecosystem breaks
as poison seeps into it,
winding and choking long abandoned homes.
the tree aches and sways as it succumbs to the crippling pain
and collapses.
termites begin upon their paths
and worms and potato bugs harvest the soil
although it was once so strong,
it still hosts life to hundreds, even thousands.
though through death and destruction,
begins life anew, and a new type of beauty emerges.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC
The nightfall smears a biding shade and plume
as Nyx complexed the clear diurnal day
and skews the stoic lensing out of gloom
alike the hearted Eros, wrought his sway.
How still the specks of frost on balm and reed
like stars arranged in view for crystal eyes,
and glazed upon the tips; a sweetened mead
which lovers strive in truthful, purple prize.
A sullen stratus coats the idle orb
succumbs the amber beams to patchy lure,
and from within uncertain skies absorb
a kindred duel; dreamers must endure.
Tonight, the morrow, all thereon to be
to ardors flux; at night is when to see.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 2:57 PM UTC
Your hands feel the cold stone
of this textured tower wall. You look up
and see an arched, hollow window gaping
like a moaning train tunnel, darker inside
than the moonless night sky.
Instead of a door there flutters a rose petal,
dry, crispy, impaled on a thorn
that succumbs and disintegrates into the cold wind,
leaving the skeleton of the thorn bush
without its last memory of sunrise.
This chilly autumn air pierces the bridge of your nose
as you turn your hooded head away and take a muddy step
back toward the woods you braved through
on this chilly, moonless autumn night.
As the impending fog before you thickens
the last touch of almost starry night disappears
with the resounding click of a tower door in the distance
that never existed on this chilly, moonless autumn night.
[First draft]
Your hands feel the cold stone
of this textured tower wall. You look up
and see an arched, hollow window gaping
like a moaning train tunnel, darker inside
than the moonless night sky. This chilly autumn air
pierces the bridge of your nose as you turn
your hooded head away and take a muddy step
back toward the woods you braved through
in this chilly, moonless autumn night.
As the impending fog before you thickens
the last touch of almost starry night disappears
behind the rolling black clouds.
Even the dry, crispy rose petal impaled on a thorn
succumbs and disintegrates into the cold wind,
leaving what’s left of the thorn bush
without its last memory of sunrise.
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 6:45 PM UTC