writing

Its late summer and the winds are fairly stronger. I lay in bed and watch the curtains swaying, fierce like a battle. the white drapes against the darkness of the night seem like white angles or ghosts taunting me again and again. sounds of leaves, fool my ears, too early for this time of year. it is cold and i shiver. my eyes grow weak as my bones grow heavy. i sleep.

poem.

yellow and black
foiled,
united.
stinging lips
pressed in gold.
a thorn wrapped,
knighted
sewn in color.

the color of rage,
blood and fire.
born with a name like beauty?

here lies a dream.
in a fear.
waiting,
for a wind,
its temperament
of a truth or a lie.

a demand a mere night can hold.

a hostage,
I.
broken sky,
rained of cautioned time.

and its fate....

just another broken poem
and line.








di

Summers Deadline

breath,
stolen like a thief,
the air that be.
lingering with the night.
carried along,
the army's ocean.
the waves marched.
baring the breeze.
insects sing,
like chants.
upon my thrown i swing,
and each night delivered.
the wind,
bowing down,
delivering,
a wealthy gift,
like that,
of gold.