PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

And the boy died in the man's breast,

withered like fall's orange brush.

His ribs were jail cells,

Locking away what was left.

Oh, the murder committed in our day!

And even in gray, he can't tie his shoes.




Alone.




Autumn's long, gray clouds

Brought on shadowed smiles,

hollow handholds.

Oh, the joy to cradle you by my side!

But my Boy died here in this valley.

Rolling waves of wet grass

Hold my bones to the ground.

If you see my ghost

Wandering around the roses

Join him in his dance

For it's always one more ring

Before we all fall.




Down.