Submissions by pumpkinlord66

To winter, I am cold and
unimportant; to summer,
I am the moon. To spring,
I wear my storm clouds like
hand-filled smears of war
paint; to autumn, I am tawny
street light cast over asphalt
pasted with leaves. But who
would I be then if not me? A
question with no definitive
answer? Perhaps an orb of
bright, raging infernos hurtling
through the void, with no
greater objective than to
light the way as others pass by in
their silver-lined rocket ships.
This new spirit is wise - cunning
beyond the years I've been...

She had the coldest
eyes, I'd always hoped
the flare of a mighty sun
might set fire to her
oceanic blues.
And her touch...? No
quarrel be that so great,
than a man in iron skin,
melted by the fragile
flesh of another.
 
He had the palest
dreams, encircling a
star neither warm nor
fervent. His thoughts are
a lake with too many stones
cast within. Fires shivered  
offshore, beacons to his lonely
vessel, though the pangs for
her fingertips against his
faint skin burned ever ...

Whereabout went the days when
riding the tide of winds on a spring
afternoon took me anywhere at
all? Would I be abashed to learn they've
up and gone? The longer I've
remained in this crooked space, the
farther I've parted from pine sap stuck
to youthful hands, gracing the tops of
trees where humans aren't meant to
be. A cardinal takes flight, fallen branches in
its grasp, and I sit in the field watching
sunset light turn the grass into a green,
shimmering ocean. The condition is
one of being mortal - of being a
passenger...

Numbers that are, but shouldn't be
wrapped around my brain, a thin
strand of string pulled tight at the
knot, as if to say, "Please do not
unravel." A dance-like ritual is
always circling back, back to the
fondest memory, and she is the
fire heathens dream of -
heathens like me. Her
smoke is an intoxicant, her flames
serpentine through tremendous
voids in perception; they tread
without, but I... I burn to find a
safer place.