Drops of mourning settle upon the blades
on the outskirt of the bluebell gardens.
A diamond friend of Winter -
the darkest of months to prevail.
How they glisten so magnificently,
with sunlight so subordinate.
Endless nights of insomnia spent gathering
these melancholic drops, pondering
whether they provide warning for a brighter day,
or a blacker night.
But t’was not answers she sought more than
a bed of stars that was tangible.
I believe one has to admire such a chilling season,
for she weeps and mourns whilst never failing,
to cradle death into the arms of resurrection -
with such superior and cunning beguile.
Intelligent, was she,
for rhetoric was never taught in school.
From the ashes of Winter, a Phoenix shall be born
and the Earth will flourish once more.
An embrace to cradle her heart to rest,
with a fire to dissipate diamonds.
Until Autumn comes to snatch it all away -
a pre-emptive warning that Winter will return,
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
with closed eyes
to dash against darkness.
You’ll meet her. She’s very pretty, even though sometimes she’s sad for many days at a time. You’ll see, when she smiles, you’ll love her.
Coffee is far more than a beverage. It is an invitation to life, disguised as a cup of warm liquid. It’s a trumpet wake-up call or a gentle rousing hand on your shoulder…Coffee is an experience, an offer, a rite of passage, a good excuse to get together.
The priest cried blasphemy
to the fire in the sky.
“My God would never allow such -
monstrosities to be!”
A blind eye he turned,
science he denied.
He prayed in vain
as his chapel burned.
The madman gazed
upon the blood that filled the sky.
Quivering knees, mouth agape,
eyes so wide and crazed.
“They’re here! They’ve come!
The voices were real!”
“Take me!” he screamed with arms spread wide
as he was engulfed by the deadly sun.
The philosopher sat beneath a tree
as the red burned in his eyes.
But he was content, he was a Solipsist,
did not believe in external reality.
He watched in wonderment
at the spectacle he created.
And for the last time appreciated
Autumn leaves fall upon the pavement.
A young artist stood
admiring her work one last time.
From the rope, crafted a Hangman’s Noose,
today’s the day she finally would.
Outside, her hometown crumbled away
and the flowers she’d planted ablaze.
So she decided she wouldn’t have
to kill herself today.
- Beau Rose