I can never grow old
wrapped in my winters deep, deep cold.

The rains, you may consider them beautiful
yet know they are flawed,
shivering exposed
in their deadened gown.

Therefore I ask you, one and all
for your reasoned hush
allowing me my quarters sleep.

Never was it my intention
to die drowning –
deeper, darker substance:
shall always rise in me.

For am I not –
your ceaseless rebirth
of all seasons…

Seasons Rebirth.

I can never grow old
wrapped in my winters deep, deep cold.

The rain, she may be considered beautiful
yet she is flawed, shivering in her dampened gown.

May I ask you all for your considered silence
at least allowing me my quarters  sleep.

I never intend to die drowning
deeper, darker waters:
Will always merge in me.

For am I not; your constant rebirth of all seasons…
January 6th 2015 ~xx~

Who Will.

How shall I know September
from October
will it be when the roses stop their showing.

Today, as I watched the leaves tumbling
from the trees
what at first glance, seemed
like natures timing
suddenly began to take hold –
forcing sincerely, into a cold hard malign.

From muddy work boot brown
to ink pot reds –
collapsed spent exhausted, dead upon the
garden floor, the markings
of a seasons time
begins to mellow, towards their retiring end.

When my days fall, into deep recession
allowing life’s negatives to blur my edges
torn capillaries, ripped exhibited
upon my easel of mistrust –

Who will frame my words
when the writing is on the wall?
Who will build me, my boat –
when my rainfall fails to desist…?

Who if anyone – will?


Poppy March 2014 ~xx~