lines illustrated as pictures spent
a heart is outlined as hands enfold
around a twisting branch
set to die
in autumn's destined reign

the words i've heard
faded, slipped from your lips
the clock,
it chimes a certain time,
and we fall
we fall

like ashes we fall
like half eaten leaves,
crumbled,
gnawed at by a winter-like vice.
we fall.

but we rise again.
with the breath of a new -
a new sort of summer.

a pair of novels,
both unwritten, both unread.
both bound by pages unheard,
and yet filled and famished by
tales of ebb and flow;
the inevitable waning and waxing
of a harvest moon...
resting its golden fingers delicately
upon the black-brushed earth.
there is a poem hidden silently
within the sweet handfuls of the wind.
merging with the odes the leaves write
to its singing companion,
creating a book for two souls to read,
underneath the boughs in a quiet embrace,
listening to the stories that nature has to bear.

Miss porcelain with a delicate touch,
a voice made it known one december,
making nectar for strangers
and smiles for villains.
Miss catastrophe the designer
and breaker of hearts.
Holding onto what she knows about battles
whilst loosing what she knew about war.
Miss mystery a labyrinth
watches a grey afternoon and fears of a sunset.
She creates sense of the tunes in her heart
and fairy tales hiding behind the dots in her eyes.
Miss porcelain, this catastrophe.
Her lids rise and set to the mirrored sky.
The rain holds her tresses down about her brow.
Miss she, this mystery, and lover of all things
Desired.

my heart is a telegraph wire
sending messages like Save Our Ships
from hearth to hearth, souls and bodies
that pick up my signals.

my words are misguided memos
to memories warning not to forget
the good old days when things were simple
and warm and things were ours.

my voice is choked in a siren's cry
hollow and hopeless at the ships of sailors
guided only by their hopes and dreams,
and not of a solitary lonesome drone.

my eyes are picture tales watching spaceships
across the drowning black sky and the shining figures that create it.
they try to meet a gaze like yours,
in vain and lost in the visions of falling stars.

a bench of falling leaves could catch
my drift in measures.
in a city park with colors of a november eve.
i sit and watch the fairy boats skim
like a verse across the channel...
poetless, without a voice to carry it.
a wind is borne from the harvest moon
guiding the branches in their nightly waltz.
a thought of you breaks the spell
of fingers whose tips could make no rhyme.
this autumn dusk holds only the secrets
a secret could care to harbor.