The Fear Before the Fall
Tag: leaves
Memorials On Tracing Paper
Short words on a long day
Doors closed on faded memories
Listened to quiet hello’s
Silent good-byes
Young children and older siblings
Watched the wind blow through the spring leaves
Yellow daffodils visited by the honey bee
Remembered young faces to be put with old bodies
Cried because that’s the thing to do
Along the Garden Path
The Garden Path Collage
The Whistling Wind
Through the cracks
I feel the colds
Soft silk touch
Slow to draw
The warmth from off
My flesh
Outside
I hear it call
Telling me to hurry
There
Come see what has
Been done
I’m no fool
I see
Through those
Same old cracks
How the withered grass
Roughly bent
Blows
I see the hard clasped oak
Leaf
Trembling there
Like clothes
On the line
Even the snow white
Clouds
Begin to blush
Pink
As the setting sun
Bleaches hard
Across a barren
Sidewalk
I know
And I will not
Go
For only the brighter
Shades
And pastels of
Spring to come
Will pull me out
From this warm
House
The Prince’s First Muster
Another Wakeful Dream
I’ve been here before…
This same dust filled room.
I have sat there in the same worn, mildewed, moth eaten chair, and watched the silent currents blow the cobwebs into movement.
I have watched the micro world’s blown about as dust in the light of each passing day.
There every page of life is written, collected, and bound. The work of a legion of unseen hands.
Every letter, every mark upon the page, created by a host of beings.
Beings that etch their knowledge simultaneously into the condensed lines of unreadable script.
My tired eyes have long ago grown accustomed to the wording.
Upon a shelf of magnitude…
There sits the great library.
Each volume a collection of time. Each traced letter a forgotten second remembered, recorded, and shared…
And each night I close my eyes…
Each mid day nap I close my eyes…
Each careless blinking of the eye…
Another leaf, another chapter, another book is added.
They lay scattered, disheveled from there proper place…
For but a short time.
Until leathery, age worn hands, once more lifts them into their place.
I know. I have been here before.
I will be again.
The Torn Letter, From the Book of Pat
Another Wakeful Dream
I’ve been here before…
This same dust filled room.
I have sat there in the same worn, mildewed, moth eaten chair, and watched the silent currents blow the cobwebs into movement.
I have watched the micro world’s blown about as dust in the light of each passing day.
There every page of life is written, collected, and bound. The work of a legion of unseen hands.
Every letter, every mark upon the page, created by a host of beings.
Beings that etch their knowledge simultaneously into the condensed lines of unreadable script.
Linking infinite worlds and paths.
Information and energy never disappoint
Recorded beyond the boundaries of forever
Relics of bygone years
Vanity of vanities, says the Preacher, all things are vanity
Death in a deathless place
Life in a place of despair
There grows the knowledge
Torn from the roots of trees
Grown fruitless in the withering breeze
And when you look for what it is you find
It’s then you loose your place
In the endless fantastic we craft
Spring
The cherry tree petals fall
As a white moth flutters about
The forest awakens
And I am reborn
Broken Lament
Those peaceful walks through autumn woods lost in guiltless silence
A frigid heart in solitude remorseful of their passing
Thoughts of you wander free tracing tear stained lines from pallid eyes
Displaced in time I watch you fade even as the last of the oak leaves fall
Last to find deaths release
lost love I linger on
False Promises Nouveau 