Crumbs

September:
Crumbs from last years fill,
have dwelt in pockets for so long,

The rains have swept the colours to bleed
summer can last only in a lyrical song
and the seasons closing to the season frail
and the sun is dying in the pale,
the night has not still
crept of a chill,
my days are bearable in autumn's gust,
the riviera of leaves floods the dust.
last September took away so much
this September I faintly believe in,
for the taking away led to grieving
though the end of the month brought,
a cold frosted numbness, a plethora of thoughts
tilling the insides when nothing would grow
all would wilt and none to sow,
how much have since the soils recovered
and the groves of spring lament uncovered.
the fruit of pain that dwells in the heart,
is an un-cautioned leap with fears apart.
and boldly did we step in December,
my numbness and my love of the end September,
swiftly did we bring in spring
February has its own musings.
but I will dwell in September,
if nothing is to last forever,
for there is hope without the spring's burst
and despair without the winter's thrust
and I live in both.
hope and despair
choosing each from time to time.
My own subdued, my own sublime.

Crumbs from the last year,
I throw to the birds.

Prison Break

Every time I start to feel the gush of fresh air in my lungs, a musty smell from the cells takes it's place in my nasal tract.

Every time I break the shacks and try to run from the binding rules, they tell me I belong not to the cells but the padded room of an asylum.

Every time I seek a wilderness to build my home, a rampant agglomeration starts to build around its need to inhabit.

Every time I seek solace in solitary confinement of my self, they tell me I need to be tried at the will and the whims of those who confine me to their existence.

Every time I let go of ropes I find a fiber of the string dangling on hanger hooks to my flesh and suspending me in the atmosphere.

I have begun to wonder if I have lived my life in paroles I have from the inevitable imprisonment in a structured sustenance.

Ever sick but never dies......

I fed fuel to warmth,
trading flesh for light,
smoke smothers from doused embers,
not the flames that are alight.
no one choked on fires,
 it's riveting crackles prove
there is life even in pyres
till water sizzles to soothe.
there is less fuel to feed these burning,
hence more sense to let them die,
Sparks rekindle timbers
and with the fire it dries.
There is hunger in its wrath,
There is madness in its loathing.
There is is dark in its charred soot
but a fervour in its glowing,
it does boast of passionate ire,
yet passions' fuel it is not .
the oil of a warm body
is what it would feed on.
which life sustains death?
which fool would live in sickening
that would be unending
and hence the fire is starving.