One morning, as I think

Write,
beneath my feet,
stories and myths that have lived longer than I.
The cold mist travels chilling every part of me
till my teeth chatter and my bones tremble
in an empty garden, of plants long since dead.
Every shadow a suspect, in the dim morning light,
of feelings that are waiting to tumble out.
A multitude of little voices battering around my brain pan.

I am peachy.

Birds sing for the new day, unaware of human matters
Smiling, and my head tilted up, as the sun hits the fog
spreading through what ever it encompasses
warming what would be the death of me.
Dew in the light of day reflects luscious diamonds.
Which is more than what he gave.

Break it.

His concrete ideals and hard monumental ego.
Wreaking havoc as winter storms often do.
Unbending and unwilling to let up from the
tyranny that was infamous.
'Live' said Beauty and in the Rose sprung out aesthetics.
Frantic Rust, flaking and peeling free from imagination
recalls dazzling absurdities of proud beauties that stand no more.

His tantrum abating I stand in melting snow
a weeping angel amoung the silent many.
He talked too much, while the other is silent
staring at me from stormy granite.
Through smokey glass,
there is me.