November 2, 2004

• cold rush of an october breeze
  settles on unsettling seas
  certanty is not clearly certainas
  it unvails falls beautiful curtain
  
  the leaves fall gracefully to forest floors
  Helplessly delicate wisping through moores
  beautiful angels dance through the trees
  manipulating all the falling leaves
  
  There are no more emerald greens
  And cold rainwater washes the leaves
  Warm breezes gone with the geese
  South for the winter to rest at peace
  
  Fall brings that grim reaper
  Unsettling all those emotions that were hidden deeper
  Causing its disease
  to spread among the trees
  
  Cold and rushing are the breezes
  Tender and warm have left the seasons
  Waiting patiently for the end
  Could it bring me to long for the dead.

  
  

   

  
  

  Such things we write when thinking of life in a distant land…Is it like painting? What if I painted those words? Would it bring me any closer to the words I wrote? Would it bring me any closer somehow? Is the poet really a liar? Is the artist a liar? I wonder…

  
  

  
  

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  **New Background by Alice

  • 7:38 pm
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