lichen shrouded logs
laid still on the forest's floor
their bones rotting

On the bottom of the shoe
Overlooking all the poo

A weird figure shows on up
All this poo is from my pup

I look over to him
He looks back at me

This dog is crazy coming from me
His eyes are red with evil stares

Reminds of the scary scares
I walk away from the dog

He chases after me in the fog
I trip on a log

I'm dead


The End

You promised kisses
beneath the old oak

You said you would give
youself to me then

Under the summer's
eager stary eyes

But they came
and cut the oak down

But not before
you left town

Now all I have
is the promise

Of firewood for those
cold lonely nights

Cold days and snowy nights
dissolve into the glow
when we come home from the sweater weather.
In from the cozy autumn day.
In from a day in which sunlight
dappled the tree's bark
like the zig-zagged icing
and french dough.
A day of mittens so only your thumbs protrude.
A day like kittens which tumble in
happiness and innocence.
Into the oak, with the window
in which tear drops
chase themselves away
down the pane and
the cool air is made hot
with cocoa frothy cream
and pumpkin.
We smoke on curled cinnamon sticks
which splinter like burnt logs
on an fire of embers.
The silhouettes of our shadows
catch on the horizon
as we watch the spectrum
scatter from the warm
cream to the dusty
pumpkin to cocoa.