YieldAutumn cloaks a darkling soulIn half-truths of vermillionCrimson, scarlet, amber, goldBeneath a blue pavilionAutumn hides its old grey bonesIn cupboards filled with snail shellsSkeins of birds and garden stonesWhere every half-lit secret dwellsAutumn’s guise is gossamerThistledown in parachutesRushing waters’ dulcimerAnd reed-song veil its bitter fruitsAutumn’s spirit is occultMelancholy, insidiousIt offers balmy days’ exultThen turns to storm, perfidiousAutumn’s altar smells of rainLeaf-mold, woodsmoke, rot and rustI yield to darkness in the veinDisease, decay, and ruined trust
Sunny DayIt's brightThe cool breeze runsAround meTo remind myselfThat it is alright.A gentle hand toGuide me through the daySmiling at me from above.The warmth is a blessingCleansing myselfOf the impurities I feel.Nature is a sweet blissWe take for granted.
School busIt rises over the horizon like a leaking,gaseous sun. Creaking, clanking, complaining in the tendrils of cloud grasping at it-tearing away to rise over yet another hill,stirring rainbow glinting dew streaks in the asphalt jungle gym. its garish veneer reflecting the early morning rays harshly,blinding all who look upon its luminescent varnish.The brilliant exoskeleton of this marvelous bug reflects its officious innardsUrchin minds weary yet wild,freshfantastical. It has become the symbol of dread,hope,late nights,early mornings,freedom,captivity.This simply embellished wreck,become an enigma within itself as more join its engravings in the back of worn leather seats.Scuffed,tumble-weed halls-leading to smooth,creaking,wrinkled,silent,sticky,gray seats lightly illuminated in the fresh phosphoresce.If you look closely,the worn grooves of memories and laughter still linger here,waiting for the coming recollections to make their mark her
Autumn Day Blowing Winds, floating leaves,Trees of vibrant hues around,Throughout the forest there runsNews of what this season brings. Lasy grasses waving in the windThey move as waves upon the ocean.In the warmth its hard to thinkThat soon the snows will fly. In the field, hidden by waving grassA late born kit sleeps in peaceHe has been waiting for his mother,But she’s been gone so long. The setting sun turns clouds goldThe day is drawing to a fast closeSoon the night will take the forestInviting our the children of the night. A silent step among the grasses,The kit awakens, knowing mother’s stepAfter a warm greeting they runBack to their den, back to its safe arms.
O'sObscure Octopus Often Ogles Omniously
A Breeze For Your ThoughtA summer breezeBringing cool rainAn autumn breezeReminds the leaves to changeA winter's breezeMight bring snowA spring breezeWill always tell the ground to grow
windblowntouch me,toss my hairand caress my facelike only you know how.i close my eyesand i lift my head for you -let me feel your gusty breath upon my skin.you murmur and growl,you press forcefully against my chestand brush your cool fingertips over my sidesand around my thighs.i arch my back,i unfurl my tail,and i open my wings for you;fill them up,lift me into the sky,hold me in your soft embrace.i am weightless.like an eagle, i rise in circles,like a vulture, i quiver from side to side,over fields and forests and city streets,like a harrier, i glide,like a falcon, i dive.the others do not understand,as they walk by,the grin you've stretched across my lips -they think i am standing still.it is a secret we share,you and me and the soaring birds -perhaps even the clouds -and no matter what i say,and no matter how far i stray,you always return to mewith that same skin-shivering passion,even when all my other lovershave gone away.i fly.(© 2014 Ca
N'sNightly Nautical NightingaleNavigatesNotesNow, Never
AvernoThe mountain was invisible.Certainly, there was evidence of a mountain’s presence,But the landform itself was obscured by a thick pall of foliage and alabaster fog.Although the woods, if not all of the flora, were alive and well,The mist lent them such a gloomy tingeThat they appeared almost colorless to the naked eye.Whereas dead and dying trees would be stark and the color of bone,These austere totems would appear frozen in time,Such were their stillness and their pallidness.Even in the sunshine,Their leaves left a shadeUpon whatever lay below.No birdsong lingered in the air, nor did any waters splash down the slope.Only silence,The elegy of the stillness,Rang through the air for none to hear.Underneath the cryptically hale treesSat an expanse of undergrowth,Much like a tangle of grubs beneath a dampened log.Between the undergrowth and the overgrowth lay the fog,And beyond all of these lay what was presumably the earth.Only by kneeling into the mists betwee
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