Half dead willows, fluttering in the breeze,
by a dull lifeless stream trickling of stagnant...
Corpulent mists drift
across the parking lot...
I'm the sweet orb of August,
firm and plump and glowing orange and red...
Spectrum wavelength giving off hues
Eyes drink in any color they choose...
Opulent jewels of the vast blue seas
Cold water currents swimming underneath...
I bought new glasses
But my vision's still the same...
Killer was brown?
not white. Snowfall...
digging deep into
her pockets she pulls out handfuls...
The living dead are going to
ask for the right to be...
Misty vapor in the air
Brought to life by speech...
THE SECRET THOUGHTS OF AN OLD OAK TREE
I yawn as once again comes the balmy springtime...
Do not take a vow of silence.
Death will find its home...