Cold Nights ||Poems||

Poem #24

A flame set to a moth
A split horizon separating those of orange and blue
Dancing leaves surfing on the rough bark of a young oak awaken
And life of emerald populate the brown dust homing life, showers in dew

Fingers gently dance across an elegant oak wood bookcase
A luxurious red leather book is plucked from its place
There is room, with the remaining books fall backward
And ghostly fingers run through stained crunchy paper

Water is our source of life
Thinner than blood but thicker than a speck
Waves crash, waves pound
Waves rise, waves drown
Innocence is lost at sea, there is no lifeboat coming this time

Nature is everywhere
Everything that touches the horizon is life
Everything lives, everything dies
The big eat the small, the small fear the big
The small needed to adapt to keep away from the big

Clouds of hope to the hopeless
It showers its horizon ally with tears of life
Its emotions are tremendous, everything below must fear
Dark clouds must be equally appreciated
If not appreciated, cling to your own death

Black ink
With its many benefits, it also brings despair
The dingy pages are now covered with black and blue
Beautiful on the outside, but now ruin on the inside

The elegant prize is no longer useful, it's consumed by fire
Wisdom will tell you problems don't escape so easily
A house of brick is choked by its own fire
Shut windows scream to be open
The books inside blow up in flames, and no essence of life is saved

Flakes of white ice fall from the heavenly clouds
Mercy is shown to the weak and defenseless, but what is lost cannot be restored
A charcoal house turns white
Everything inside is crisped, except for the red leather book