Fall's Symphony

The passionate rush
of a vigorous breeze

Inspires the orchestra's
windswept trees

Nature's maestro
conducts a fine piece

Admired from
window's

mezzanine seats

Stitches

What grace is gained from angry debt?
Thinking you're owed for past regret
Get over yourself; you're not alone
It's time to quiet that pity-pot moan

Some of us triumphed over pain's past
Whilst others need blood to make misery last
Bleeding remorse; no longer my due--
I finally get stitches, in honor of you

Effervescence

Your love is
the invigorating
effervescence
of a salty spray

I stand as stoic rocks
and succumb
to its rushing
embrace

A relentless shower;
pounding away
the rough edges

of my heart

Walking on Eggs

In a world of catch phrases, cliche, or just plain-old infinite wisdom of the generations that precede us; I find myself living (and slowly dying) in that infamous adage-- 'walking on eggs'.

Who the heck made up that one anyway?
You cannot walk on eggs...not even the hard-boiled ones. You'd roll right off them suckers and break your neck.

Yet this is where I've found my feet-- as of late.
I walked on those eggs until the shells slashed them wide open.. gushing enough emotional blood to render me incapable of walking altogether.

So here I sit; feet off the floor, in my guilt-padded / shell-armored, wheelchair.
I'm going to try to roll over these deceptively-fragile eggs now....no more bloody feet for me.

Ahhh, but I forget about those flowing salty tears, that rust up the bearings on my wheels.

Now I am stuck; frozen in a chair with a plethora of razor-like remains under my rusted shell-crusher.
I dare not get up; the wounds have not healed and I will bleed once more.
Maybe this is my fate. I could not have asked for a more pitiful demise.

Dying at the hands of what a chicken popped out of its ass.