Walk in my Garden
I walk through my garden everyday
down a long path made from stones of grey
most of the plants that grow here withered away,
once blooming in a most glorious display.
My feet stop abruptly. Standing still I gently raise my head and fix my eyes onto where I stopped.
"This was once a lusty oak" I thought to myself perusing its sere figure.
There are many trees here; big, small and of all shapes and sizes; but this one caught my eye.
Many dark gangly branches protruded from its dead frame in a chaotic fashion, sickly and friable.
Tall and hallow, its size was the only testimony for its former greatness.
The skeleton cast a netted silhouette which concealed me in partial shade.
I place my hand upon the dead bark and close my eyes.
Hazy visions of summer fill up my mind, accompanied by a harmony of smells, tastes and other warming sensations.
Smiling I withdraw my arm and place it back at my side. I look once more at the derelict tree before slowly moving on.
I come across
There was once a little onion man growing in farmland
Two arms, two legs and a head coloured quite bland
Waiting underground for the day of harvest
Thinking of that time brings a feeling of zest
A young girl plucks out this little young man
Looking with a smile as he leaves his clan
Put in her pocket, taken for a ride
Moving to the kitchen and sat on the side
Swinging his feet, reminiscent of straw
Watching as she walks over to the draw
She brings out her knife ready for surgery
The cutting board shall act as the jury
Ahe places her fingers on his soft brown skin
Rubbing on its comfort but some flaking begins
Joy and felicity fall to his thighs
A display to the world, a disguise, a lie
With her knife she pierces the next layer
Each one down becoming much greyer
Secrets start to uncover with each tare
A harsh stinging aroma lifts up in the air
Cinnabar-red tears stream down her face
Hands shielding eyes from a core once encased
It lay sombre and oily, filled with a scorning blight
Cutaneous AshtraysLittle red circles sprinkled on skin
Burns scorched a story buried within
Each a bad day or memory that never fade
Of no bestowed comfort nor a friends aid
Holding smoke clouds within ones chest
Black deadly fumes, the welcomed guest
Lungs smothered in tar, feeling worse
Hating oneself for this unwanted curse
Hands kissed by embers flaking like chalk
Burning through like beef pierced by fork
Ugly marks are a price for a few seconds of pleasure
Preceding rawness and consequences left unmeasured
Health was a problem which wasn't flattered
For cutting and burning the marks are scattered
Though this dirty habit is no longer sustained
For praying eyes makes a cage we don't want to maintain
One may be cured by stopping their habit
Able to see success, reach out to grab it
But in times of sadness or solitude one finds
Those feelings and ideas come back into mind
Empty Chat Windows
Square boxes illuminated on the screen
Once filled with words inspiring joy and mirth
Float blank, emptied with a pale sheen
Yarning for that next colloquy for us to birth
Pictures fixated glare back greyed out
A collection of avatars laid on display
My fingers twitch over the keys wanting to shout
Motions of converse absent to their dismay
Another cigarette is rolled as i continue my watch
Deeply breath in for lungs to carbonate
A long wait passes, thoughts of leaving scotched
I continue to sit, I continue to wait
Still watching, still waiting
My dear Mannequin
you have taken many forms
many of which I hate you for
The first disguise you wore was that of Fakery.
Hidden under layers of cosmetics, perhaps a front to hide
a secret shame, a feeling of worthlessness.
Shallow shells smothering a net of ignorance,
I dare wonder if removed, would there be anything underneath.
The next was a screen of Infidelity
A common mistake to expect a veracious coexistence.
Behind closed doors your true nature revealed itself.
Your metamorphosis was clear to me as you became no more than
a nymph indulging on a repeat of philandering.
Upon my journey through your personas
I come across the guise of Lust
For I found you fun at first, full of excitement and pleasure,
quickly your distaste of emotion reacted against my search for feelings.
This sin of impure desire had to be expunged.
Then there was the vizard of Fickleness
An inconsistent wavering of opinions to leave me addlepated.
My head span in circles following in