Speaking of monstrous:Nothing is less than worthless,Than nothing at all.
I'm a little tired,Like sleep sapped away my soul,So back to it, then.
Winter clings to Time,Spring mud scattered in her wake,She melts, yet remains. Warm sun on my back,I’m filled with bitter respect,This perseverance.
Timing is sublime,Rhythm off, growing hotter,Watching her lips smile,Hands touch, a muted laugh shared,And it all ends with a pop. I am so sleepy.A heavy heart drags me down.At least it's warm, here.
The pen hovers still,Frozen like midwinter thoughts.While ink slowly dries. How did I write, then,In those days before you came,Bringing me such joy?Now that you are gone from me,My shattered art weeps such words. Joy taught me the skills,That gives life to hollow thought,Arranged in sad forms.
There are some joys, still,Like dyed leaves drifting on wind,And a cat purring.
Finger-tracing names,On the small of your arched back,Our phantom tattoo.
My pen's ink runs dry,A sentence left unfinished,But that is fine too.
I might fly away,Catch the wind and simply soar,If not for this string.
Midland autumn rains,Morning mists growing colder,Summer passes on. Piano keys creak,Old hands struggle with placement,But still, it sounds good. Passing strangers smile,Lives meeting in the stairwell,Never again seen. The scarf on the hook,Made with love by an old 'friend',Still smells of perfume. The painter's wet cheeks,Just enough to thin old paint,Now, let's start again.