Autumn's SpriteMystical is shewith tree branches for wings.She engraves the path beyond uswith evergreen draped behind her.And when the winds guide herinto the falling skiesher crisp and golden leavesflutter down like cherry blossom rain;kissing the moss below andpaving oblivionwith a forest's stars.
MistRolling mists glide bybefore the showers begin.I wait for them beneatha skylightlike I could catch themon my tongue.If only I had the pleasure.The droplets cling to the glassin their flawless orbs,each one a piece of treasurewhen the streetlamps glowand a mess of themappear to me like chandelierson my windows.Glittering gold in the gray void.The lackluster ones are jealousof this fictitious sunlight,but to me they are diamonds.The ones that slip are likefalling stars andI make them contenders,racing one against the otheruntil they disappear from view.Time passes discreetlywhile I obsess over the gracewith which the sky poursits heart out around me.And the longer I gaze,the more I feel somesense of fear upon me.The plunge is not endless.All of them collide,they drum onto somethingI realize in listeningto the soft symphony,the gentle roar.I feel almost somber...How far they must've fallen.I wonder just how far they've fallen.
BlusturousI watch the line of your shoulders,the way they roll when you walk,as you move farther and farther away from me.The panic sets in.I'm anxious to envision your chestnut eyesbut I can't stop staring at theback of your neck.I have this urgency to knowthe distance between us as it grows.And I feel like I'm countingbut I don't know what.The world around us isa white noise nightmarethe moment you stop turning aroundto look at me.How close we were before you let go on three.It's blustery and you took yourradiator touch with you when youknow how much I like your hands on my back.I think you took my heart too when you kissed me.I romanticize the memory nowplacing stars and warm summer windswhen there were none.I think maybethe empty passenger seatwon't seem so bare withan embellished goodbye inthe front of my mind.But it's just as lonely.
AloftNine o'clock and we're spinning circlesin the parking lot at two miles per hour;rolling down windows in negative degrees.My cheeks are frozen rosesburning in the cold and I thawevery moment thatvelvet voice drips from the radio.Bones dance beneath my pilled skinand our fingers are feeling bluethrough the sunroof. Is it any differentfrom sitting still? That night I saw starsand imagined paintings behind my eyelidswhen I blinked, and it felt like centuries passedbefore my eyelashes pulled apart..When I'm with you I forget at what pointmy feet hit the pavement and our laughterbecame ceaseless. You are my magic thingin the middle of the night. I'm sitting next to youand suddenly songs become endless,your stories become vast oceans and I'm in over my headwhile I do that thing with my teeth.I'm fluttering around behind the curtain,and you come to keep me company,to calm my restless storms.You make me feel ridiculous and faintbut as beautiful as lightwhile you are a
My SunDainty and timid hands writhe;an extension of the boxy shouldersthat think they belong somewherenearer to my ears.Pink velvet pillows tremblemiles below the void glass orbslooking out the windows for thesun at night.Desperately, desperately.I make a calender before I realizethe radiator next to me.He is heat, and blush, and joymade of many lights; I wonderhow my vision became so clouded.The sun holds my hand,and speaks to me sternly. Hisrays burn holes in my eyes.He exudes his charm andwonders to me.I sleep with the sun at night.
The Bird CageI never had a bird cage in my living room. And I could never fathom the harm in a cherub of a creature inside the tangible model of a lie. The things we don't see at nine years old when all we want is a few sweet songs and light catching feathers in the corner against my mother's choice of blue-grey drapes. Something to call my own, or just to make my brothers mad; it didn't matter. When no was no, even after thirteen and a half minutes of crocodile tears, I don't remember ever thinking of it again.I blinked carelessly as years passed by. Tragically blinded by my own fiction; life became less and less of wide eyed innocence and evermore tip-toeing around the addiction to the bittersweet taste of teenage freedoms. I hardly even noticed as my fears turned to solid bars and my thoughts piled up like the harmonious notes of a hummingbird indoors; acoustics bouncing off the walls tirelessly. And it was tragic the way things fell together and fell apart and I pretended that I was protecting
CandlelightCandles make halos,but sitting in it doesn't make mean angel. It's the big pilleddown comforter that acts as my wings.I surround myself in a cozy fortressleaning against boxes decorated with dustand labeled with holidays.My tiny candlelight makes my cheeks gloweven when they're not warm and setsa wildfire in my eyes even thoughthey're blue as ice.It's all just bright enough to illuminatemy fears and thenI don't have tofeel wretched for such a long time.I create my illusion,of being wrapped in love and warmthwhere there is only thirty two degreesand dark nights without any stars. And I sitin hopes I will forget my sorrows and theshutters will close to cover thebroken glass windows,the wool will cover my eyes.The paper thin skin will sufficefor my lack of sheep andmy eyelashes will embraceand I will immersemyself in twelve hour slumberwhether I dream of tragediesor you. It makes no difference.