winter comes

winter comes to burn the light I brought
searing through the snow of swirling thought.
find the words to turn the sunset back
as the ridges bruise an inky black.

winter comes to glorify the dark
space between the days which took my mark--
scrabbling for the crumbs I scattered, spring
holds the answer tied in tidy strings.

winter comes, and I am unafraid
chilled beneath stained sheets--the bed I made.
rest befitting wealth, this crown of thorns
pierces through the cross that I have borne.

winter came and left behind a dream;
I have not yet slept enough to see.

--
Thoughts about the coming cold, and how I'm struggling with NaNoWriMo this year.

homemade

I had a home made of shadows, but it was too dark;
The home made of music proved too much a lark.
My home made of colour was closer to please,
but my favourite by far was the home made of cheese.

second

A second chance came twice
to lead me from my bed;
I called it evil, trouble, vice,
and bade it leave instead.

It left but soon brought back
an option third, but same.
I took that third time's charm because
it now called me by name.

a current

a current running through my head,
from ankles down to toes.
it sinks into uncharted spaces
in between my bones.

in recesses of ice and fire
where indulgences once lay--
the seven deadly sins
grow less fearsome by the day.

I come to know the sound of it
when midnight comes to call--
for without this vibration
I would never know at all.

the current running through my head
grows softer with each line;
I tune my poems, verse by verse
before I call them mine.

with another brought together
I am given right to rest
and the current running through my head
sinks down into my breast.

atop the pillar

atop the pillar stands a man,
he wears the mask of death.
he moves as if stirred by a wind
but never takes a breath.

we all stand in his shadow,
but never seem to see
the land that stretches in the sun
where we will soon be free.

the man looks down for each just once
to finally meet their eye
and in that moment, takes a breath
so we may calmly die.

I lie with sheets

I lie with sheets, but ne'er entwined,
upon them like a grave--
the heat that rises from my heart
is far too warm to save.

It catches in the rafters,
with dust and shadowed wood;
I find I can't collect it
as I feel a dreamer should.

I let it drift away instead,
balloon without a string--
My heart grows cold atop these sheets
and I can't do a thing.

there is no sun

there is no sun at all today,
slanted or otherwise--
the harsh white light of tech instead
reflects my tired eyes.

for day has not yet broken
but dawn still comes too soon.
I lose the hours that should be dreams
inside this cluttered room.

my bed knows not to call me,
too timid and afraid--
I find myself unable
to lie in what's unmade.

so hours leave me waiting
for sleep to draw me near,
but I find only silence
dares whisper in my ear.

are these tasks then so fearsome
that sleep will not intrude?
the internet must shine too bright
and sleep dares not be rude.

--
Emily Dickinson is my ever faithful inspiration. I love how her poems often don't make sense, and when people complain about that, I just want to slap them and say, "Well, duh; she didn't write them for you!" I'm a big fan of writing not for perfection or publication, but to express a thought, an image, an idea. I most often write only for myself--I find I get better poetry that way.

ease

an endless sky of yellow-white
takes breaths below the sea,
for as the ship finds bottom rest
I scale another tree.

I see the shore like heron perched
upon the earth's long legs
the waves like drowning men that lurch
their corpses from the dregs

across the water carried, still
until they reach the sand--
an army mortal man can't kill
is left to my command.

a scattered field of bone bleached white
spits glory from its shine;
I reach one hand out, clench it tight,
and call the wreckage mine.

--
Title and the weird picture in my head are prompt.