Moon.

I.

Coming spring I'll count on you,
and by the window I'll wait for you, 

O patient moon.

II.

My moods like you many faces,
Sometimes bright and sometimes gloomy.
I wish I could marry you, moon.

III.

Are you upset with me moon ?
It is but not my fault
for the cloud ministry did not sanction my request.

IV.

I do not think it will work between us.
It is not about love, 

just that you are too predictable , moon.

V.

How could I not be upset
My birthday and you were not present,
Moon.

VI.

The sun detests
The moon desires
Its the dusk that interests me.

Spring.

I.

A blue bud sneakily takes a peek,

Transformed by what she saw, forever.

Such is spring !!!


II.

Spring, it alters souls.

Groggy buds open up everywhere,
Like a bunch of introverts, mingling


III.

Buds and bachelors,
Cease to be.
Spring is a lovers time.

Wish.

If I were an eagle,

I'd prey on unsuspecting hearts.

Utopia

Will I have it all one day
I house I'll share with my love
A car I'll ride in with him
A farm where we grow our vegetables
And trips overseas we would take.
In this age of inflation
Love is hard to find.

At The Brink.

It just piles on
The burden of failures
Unresolved and unread
My biography will be a confused artwork
Of just greys and blues.

I realise how I haven't looked up the sky in a while now

Is it still the same color it used to be

Or maybe a muddled grey

I need to fall in love again.

Not Guilty.

I'm innocent

You stamped on me
Razed me down
A genocide of my self
I gasped and cried help
You shut the door and the windows 
Tighter than ever
I'm innocent 
I cried
But it seemed to upset you even more
A rebuking nobody
How could I ?
I am innocence
I wrote in blood
Excited, you smiled as I drained it all
A crimson artwork befitting a desiccated lump
I'm innocent 
Said the salty trails on my face
You mistook it for a daring
Now my eyes run dry
I'm still innocent
For I think i would still love you
But that heart of mine
You consumed the other day
I'm. Just. 

The Onset Of Homecoming.

Slow mornings, ginger filler air and tea brewing a boiling red.
The suffocating quilts, heavy but oh so warm !
A familiar touch on the forehead - "Good morning , get up and have tea," she says.
So predictable and comforting.
So uncomplicated the living.
So less the words and such simple interpretations.
These small hill town joys.
I yearn for home.