The pen hovers still

The pen hovers still,Frozen like midwinter thoughts.While ink slowly dries. How did I write, then,In those days before you came,Bringing me such joy?Now that you are gone from me,My shattered art weeps such words. Joy taught me the skills,That gives life to hollow thought,Arranged in sad forms.

Some Joy

There are some joys, still,Like dyed leaves drifting on wind,And a cat purring.

yours, mine

Finger-tracing names,On the small of your arched back,Our phantom tattoo.

my pen’s ink

My pen's ink runs dry,A sentence left unfinished,But that is fine too.

bird, captured

I might fly away,Catch the wind and simply soar,If not for this string.

midland autumn rains

Midland autumn rains,Morning mists growing colder,Summer passes on. Piano keys creak,Old hands struggle with placement,But still, it sounds good. Passing strangers smile,Lives meeting in the stairwell,Never again seen. The scarf on the hook,Made with love by an old 'friend',Still smells of perfume. The painter's wet cheeks,Just enough to thin old paint,Now, let's start again.

crack on the glass

The crack on the glass, Catch upon yearning lips, Blood mingles with tea.

I fell in love then

I feel in love then,As he struggled so boldly,Daring me to care.

Foggy summer days

Foggy summer days,Steal from me heat, hate, and dreams,So, I too, am mist.

There is a garden

There is a garden,On a distant island, where,Glory died for peace.