LadyScipio

It's the middle of winter And January's burning through, Blurring into February skies churning, becoming the color in my eyes March is coming fast And I know that its harsh winds cannot last Yet I wonder if I'll still sing When all becomes still at the end of spring And heat sets in Then will I long for this winter wind To return to the land once again?

today is a day of sadness and sighs and long coming goodbyes long's been the journey from way across space to make our way here where friendships come to die and emptiness takes their place tears roll down and join with a frown but my sadness is not for you or the end just wondering if it could've been prevented today is a day of sadness and sighs and long coming goodbyes

I haven't written In so many months, Days, It might as well be years, That everything is growing, Bottled, Trapped, Inside me As I'm consumed by all my fears

Fire The color Red   is always a symbol      of one of two things:   Danger and Passion. Fire Surely I should have known   should have expected      But no,   Protecting my heart was something I neglected. Fire It leaves nothing unscathed   it either burns down      or it welds together;   Either way, It changes things forever. Fire We knew our flame   was dying      and would soon be snuffed out   So why not go out in one last blaze And give each other reason            to remember each other's names?

I am a cup of steaming water.       Nothing but water that's not getting any hotter    Hot, hot water sitting on the counter. Leaves of paper tea         are put in the infuser ready to bleed    and then set to bleed their life into me. Now somethingishappening, somethinghaschanged      I am enLIGHTened, I am not the SAME   I'll never be again, and Knowledge is to blame.

Paint me back--   back to your piano      where children we were,         flowers not yet come into bloom,            a clock that had just barely struck noon. I'll sing you home--   home to the canvas      where we both belong,         caught up in the innocence we'd always known            neither artist nor poet could ever truly own. Paint me back      with all your keys and every note, And I'll sing you home      with each brush and every stroke. (Do you draw me there--      on every bench? Like I hum you here--      in every sketch?)

Remember when we played With swords of tinfoil and cardboard? Now we face each other once again, Wearing the guises of men, But we're still the young boys we'd once been. This time, though, We're playing the game for keeps, For we know that this time Some of us won't leave. The angels cry out As we charge one another; I apologize to you for this, my brother. Remember when we played With swords of tinfoil and cardboard? What a shame That's not the case anymore For now we stand to face the storm....

Youth— is a peeling     to all. Youth is the sweetness     of the scent of new leaves carried on the gentle spring breeze. Youth is the freshness     of that first cold glass of sweet tea after a winter of hot coffee. Youth is the fullness     of that first warm day marking hollow Winter's going away. Tell me now—     who among you does not enjoy the salad days of youth? Youth is a peeling     to all, sweet and fresh and full   in season. But Life— is the bitterness     underneath. The "real world" houses things that naïveté dare not reveal. The future is bleak, quite contrary to