A Summer Lost

I sat amongst the earth’s garniture
in a sober sadness.
Once green, laden across her breast;
now coated with ash-crimsoned vest,
summer has left her vale of tears.
I know her heart is without stain
and she reminds me of warmer days
when summer vine in her beauty clings
to the mellow blush of day.
Like passions springing from the dust,
they fade and die.
Under the swaying barren boughs
are tears and a broken heart,
when came the parting hour.
Summer is lost.

Coming Home

The rhythmic swaying and the singing of iron on iron woke me. I rubbed my eyes as I leaned to look out the window. I wiped the fog from the window and sat so close that I felt the cold glass on my nose. Snow had fallen, covering all the land as far as I could see and the evening gave way to the gray silken veil that masked the trees as we sped by. The tracks seemed so lonely lying there as we passed, not seeing where we had been and barely able to see ahead. A dim yellow light on the nose of the train was the most we could hope for guidance. Like hope, a blush of crimson rushed through the folds of gray clouds and cast a rosy light that stained the snow ahead.
My heart warmed. I was heading home for the first time in three years.

Pretending

I could pretend you’re still here,
me listening to the beat
of your heart while you sleep.
Inhale the scent of your body
As I lay next to you,
pretending.

I could pretend hearing your voice,
Telling me that you love me,
Catch your eyes in the mirror
Flirting with me while I watch
As you dress and I sit
pretending.

I could pretend holding you,
Embracing your hurt away,
Drying your tears with a kiss,
Sweep your hair from your face
As you look at me,
pretending.

I could pretend and not live the truth
The truth is you were temporary;
like signature in the sand
erased by ocean's tide,
or autumn wind that carried you away
like golden leaves in flight.

I could lend pretending for faith
on whose wings your soul
has risen beyond the sky
And waiting patiently
my selfish heart beats
pretending.

Death Stalks

Death Stalks Me
By
Robert Austin Meacham

The old man sat motionless in his rocker. His gnarled fingers and stilted legs prevents the old man from moving, except for the slight motion of the rocker as his head drops toward his lap. Sitting wide on grimacing face, his pale blue eyes glared at the chamber floor with the perception of his haunting. With cunning speed, a thick darkness shrieked the echo that stalked him. Even in mortal terror, the old man could only groan. As the night waned, he summoned the acuteness of his senses he would need to confront death’s coming. Swiftly, his head snapped back and the cold wind of death rushed through his eyes, piercing them and shattering them into thousand pieces. He panicked at the end and his thoughts grayed before they extinguished all together.

Come Visit Me

Come visit me in the cold depths
Where darkness is my bed
Come visit me where sounds are still
And silence fills my head.

Come visit me where chained I'm slave
a prisoner forced to lie.
Come visit me in this lonely grave
resting here to die.