Sanctuary — Ode to Devlin

Darkened dreary dull dank
Devilishly deceived
Dirge draining down

Ethereal evening evanescence
Echo echo
Evolve elegantly

Vexed viral vengeance
Voraciously victimized
Violently vaporized

Lush lovely landscape
Languid lamentations
Lies lies lies

Inconceivably infinite
If indeed
Ignorantly invisible

Never needed now
Negative night
Native neighbors

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Trees In November — A Poem

Fading green turns to orange and red
Smoke filled nostrils, vanilla sky.
Carefully past throngs of dead,
Waiting for our turn to die.

The ways are blocked and somber.
Cold winds whip and blow.
Swaying to the tick of time,
Like trees in November.
Trees sighing in November.

Entropic forces burdening reality
Forgetting what we thought was right
Rusted — decaying creativity
Oppressive shadows of the light

The way is blocked and somber
Biting winds rip and shred
Bending to the tock of time
Like trees in November
Trees dying in November

There is little we can do
Damage cannot be undone
Looking forward but moving back
Eyes burned by the setting sun
Running scared to beat the devil
The fatal flaws of being the one

Order fleeting, darkness still
Changed forever and ever changing
No time left to waste or kill
The entire world is aging

The way eternally blocked and somber
Frigid winds howl and scream
Falling silently in measured time
Like trees in November
Trees lost in the mists of November

The Withering Season

I apologize to my loyal readers.  I have been engrossed in the writing and editing process for my upcoming novel.  So today, I would like to share one of the poems I’ve written for the novel.  I hope you enjoy it!

The Withering Season

Transiting quietly, as we move through the languid arc of time,
Burning loudly, like a ghost, lustrously, the Sun controlling our lives.
Sowing, reaping, harvesting, each moment and hour align,
Passing beyond, and falling contained by the juries of our crimes.

Each season clear by a hidden point and a mark,
Beyond our world, beyond the limits of space and time.
Within this prose, dark equations approximate and skulk,
Revealing the depths of the universe, reluctant and sublime.

 October and November are wholly and fully within,
While September and December are somewhat without.
A time to remember our borders and long forgotten kin,
The Sun bobs and retreats, ignoring our movement about.

 A day, an hour, a minute, a second,
What are we trying to measure and why?
Moments in time, thoughts never mentioned,
Yet the world is mirrored in our eye.