autumn-cannibal

What went wrought                                     When wit went in it What wild tongue                                     With words wrote wrong Wise whilst written                                     Weird when spoken Well worth Whisp'ring                                     Through well wetted whistles Wordsworth wrenching                                     Clouds are broken

The last night has fallen When all of the thoughts fade Away. And suddenly you find The rays are cast In a bleaker light, for now You see your once proud comrade After all his pride and tone is lost, You finally look upon him, and When the world around you stops spinning You focus upon the brightest thing you see. Amidst the chaos you fall and Weep upon the mud, then You realise there is no time to Live anymore, and at that moment, How can you find the passion to Write, laugh or love? When did you last hear your brother cry, I ask you.

What if Jane, whilst writing at her desk Had closed the hearts, opened the chasm And sold her soul. How many eyes would the breeze Slam shut? How many girl's hearts would soften? What code would they follow? A ring? A ring around the rosy flesh and murmured breath, Lessened by the wooden frame. Caught short, cut off. Settle down. Just settle. She wrote the book on love, Now we can do better, we can suck it up, And swallow. Twice a day. Just pass the water. Or have you heard the one about Arthur? A fatal young man of the time they say. Oh a Cambridge man, well I wouldn't know. All very holier than thou I'm sure He didn't have t

I sat beside       A solemn tree Aged and blackened       All through winter The roots anchored in       By a rusting crust Now all that blooms       Out beneath it Just a rosebud       Rising gently Encrusted with       A crown of ruby

Of course, I saw him only yesterday; Some time, same place as I always do. How did he look? How did he look, Well his skin was positively shimmering. Granted a few creases and ripples Here and there, but no more than you'd find In a plump orange perhaps, Or in your most comfortable sweater. But how could he look any less glorious With two magnificent suns, giving him Such warmth, such glow. And I have followed his growth long enough. Enough to be called an obsession, can you believe. Or adoration, one or the other. But look at me, I would look past him, Through him, beyond him within my first thought or second. If he would on