The lonely acorn aims,
hearing the safe leaves bristle and jeer in a cat call.
While its stem shoots and stands tall
those dead leaves see black and spinning rims.
Love is no stranger to the pain she brings.
She means no danger; she leaves us good sins.
Her price is pain, hurt for the joy she brings:
Paid in wails of thunder to curse her sins.
I do speak waste! Of love that hastes death rates:
Digging graves for fools with more heart and no brains,
Their hearts brave forth, taking the test love creates:
They fight back with brave hearts; they sing praise in the rains.
I see love. She comes as a harbinger.
She makes the way to our hearts much sweeter
So leave the icy cold winter: your bitter hate bringer
And leave a place in your heart for a bright summer.
When our ceilings don’t relent
we take on blisters and make a dent.
A skylight from the bend
from a struggle with no end
my fingers wont stray from their iron embrace.
your words were fierce so your neck must break.
My rage is quick. tempered animals on the mend,
with instincts like mine, kill insects that leer.
you’re an insect-you steered too far from my grace.
(now you’re evil red) and may hope to break
my embrace with your mandible’s lower end
But Be Still! my fingers will unloose when your breath is queer.
Twigs hit a rough end
taking on streams
that drown their dreams.
A Spectre came,
rousing the person lodging in my nogging.
He beckoned my tenant,
who sighed to berate his tyrant.
But then he marveled,
wanting nothing more than to reach out
and leave his room of logic,
to seek madness from his shell, for magic.
His latent desire,
an escapade with a spirit not right,
stumbled in with sensations to rekindle
the romance his pragmatics lack.
So he skips out, my savvy.
Hand in hand with his new-found cherie
to tumble bareback and far from all distraction
never to return, lost in the wind of passion.
Then he returns,
crawling back to me every night.
seeking refuge where it’s right
his winded shrieks give me fright
Battered by the cold
searching for a whole.
Begging for the shell he damned
yet hoping his feeling comes around.
I wait in the night
wait for the spectre to come for his right
for the tenant to run from his true light
for love to come calling for the night.
Growing older is natural,
like composing is phenomenal.
The younger me was subliminal,
and my feelings were optional.
Now I’m waiting for the natural.
For logic to make nonsense
of a younger conscience with a lining that’s unnatural.
That’s only natural.
LIFE is unnatural.
It’s stiff and unusual.
We’re born labored and grow abnormal
into anomalies being theatrical
quoting and aging
underneath the supernatural
but that’s all natural.
Like growing older is natural.