Discarded Tinsel

It's the winter cold,That cuts the most,Reminding me of old,Of efforts like ghosts,Gone like my breath,Caught upon this chill,Fluttering to its death,Like such discarded tinsel. Once lustrous, boldly gleaming,Now faded beyond glory,Having lost all meaning. Prompt: from the kind writers over at the pub, dVerse, “Tinsel” as part of their Quadrille Series #142. Always a pleasure … Continue reading Discarded Tinsel

Hold up your hands

Hold up your hands,Stained with pale fire,Until hot dreams ofBright futures grow dim,Cooling against your sighs,Softening like your soul,Trickling through your fingers,As dried streams ofHope haunts unfettered children -These phantoms drawn inAsh falling like snow. Prompt: from the kind writers over at the pub, dVerse, “Ash” as part of their Quadrille Night.

O my bloodless heart

O my bloodless heart,Nailed to the mirror,How did you fare,Exposing your self so,Shattered at a glance,Bled dry over time?I'll remove the nail,But the hole remains,And though you're whole,By the mirror's judgment,I'll still be broken. Prompt: from the kind writers over at the pub, dVerse, “Heart” as part of their Quadrille Series #134.

Maybe it Will Grow

Sadness is a thing you carry,So you can pluck it from your breast,And plant it in the earth.Shed a single tear more,To feed the seed,And maybe, maybe,It will grow,Into something of worth,Or at least worth loving. Prompt: from the kind writers over at the pub, dVerse, "Seed" as part of their Quadrille Series (#127)