Those rhymes I once relished,
adorned and embellished
with classical quotes:
(antique anecdotes)

Were lines I once cherished,
Once published – now perished.
Their ghosts in my mind
look to me to find…

the source of the sorrows
that tore my tomorrows
with longing for girl,
in diamond and pearl,

who’d vanquished my verses,
condemned them with curses,
and poisoned my pen:
My cold-hearted Gwen!

I wish my father hit me
All the time
When someone says,
“Forgive him, he’s trying”

I wish he used his hands,
instead of his words
Real scars are easier to see,
than the ones on the heart

The questions would stop
If my wounds were visible
A mark to point to and tell them,
“See, see what he does to me”

But they don’t
And he didn’t
I just wish he did

A humbling chill begins to fill the air,
as we start to say goodbye to the warmth of summer.
The dark hours of night suddenly last longer,
And the moon appears to take its stand earlier.

A new path is chosen.
The cold creeps in and the trees change colour.
We are reminded of the things that give us comfort,
as we grieve the lighter moments of the year.

I lay down on the ground and take in the annual mystery.
Gaze at the bronze-coloured jewels falling from their homes.
A natural beauty,
Proof of the season’s mercy.

I sit highlighting, citing, writing
what I need you to know.
In lines I'm laying, simply saying:
why did you have to go?

From world that’s turning; botched and burning,
with pen, I stand aloof.
In words I’m weaving, grieving, leaving
a page, as pledge and proof.

Of how I’m feeling – raw, unhealing,
on this cruel heartbreak day.
As I sit dreaming, tears are streaming
now that you’ve gone away.