The Rise of FallThere were such pretty flowers in the spring: The fragrant colors of a verdant time; Such fresh potentiality, sublime In all the loveliness that they did bring. Then summer issued forth a deep wellspring, Maturely ripening, where vines would climb And trees begin to bulge. This is the prime Of life when growth will dance, and sway, and sing. But autumn is the time of now. I stand Amid the harvests and the fruit. The change Between the then and now, it leaves me jaded; I barely have the bearings to withstand This person of today. Indeed, how strange, How much the beauty of the past has faded. Annelid SonnetI thought I had forgotten you by now, But I have not. Must I go again Into this place of torment? Tell me how To get rid of this leech that suckles when I try to free it. How I can I walk on When I am chained? I bury you inside, Outside, within, withal, whereon, be gone! Be dead! But in the casket you abide, Alive but molded, withered; rotten worm That will not die, though I had thought you dead! I lunge forth and away but you hold firm With prongs embedded in my bones and head. Oh, you have held a place within too long, Too undeserved, too late to right the wrong. Grey SonnetYou say that you are grey, but do you know How shades of grey are complementary To russet, red, maroon, or crimson's flow, And other hues of blood that bleed from me? You admix, so you say, of black and white; But did you notice how the dawn of grey Will burst with yellow purples, pinks and light When face to face confronted with the day? Then you are every color and are none: For black absorbs and white reflects; yet free In alchemy the rigid comes undone, And then my spectrum you more clearly see. For grey to dwell alone is grey indeed When colors yearn to contrast, blend, and bleed. Sonnet of the Hardened HeartCare less, I warn myself; bother no more With inner crevices: prying the shell Like scabs (rough, oozing, sore), which crust, but tell Of tumults against the psychic seabed floor; It is in vain. Swollen and hard around The meat (like newborn skin, or the vaginal flower), The protection, obdurate, damns me. Damn the mound Which buries my soul and suffocates what little power My will may afford. That meat, that flower, that skin (A pulsing pinkish mass) is thus entombed; And yet, for her to exist at all, the wound Must needs be sealed by this guardian within. She lives within her shell; perhaps she dies As well, because it makes and mutes her cries. I once was sharp as bladesI once was sharp as blades, as honed as steel,
And I could slice raw words within my mind And then put them to paper, thus consigned To publish all I think, believe, and feel. I was as bright as day, and was as real As sunlight which can make the viewer blind: So sharp and light did become intertwined, And beauties from within to all reveal. But now I am as dull as rotten wool; My thoughts are nothing if not addlepated; My acumen seems gone into a pile Of sweet, soft nothing. Once so strong and full Of clarity, but now deteriorated, I wonder how my efforts are worthwhile.
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