Seasons of Everything

Modern Jungle

Midnight blooms with the howling of wolves.
Welcome to the modern jungle.
Here it is not the strong who survive,
Because barking is worse than biting.
Keep your head down and continue grazing,
For drawing attention to oneself is ill advised.
There is only strength in numbers,
Yet a stagnant stream supports no life.
Time will change the forest,
Even if it is undetectable to its inhabitants.
But whether that change will better or worse,
Are for the children for tomorrow to determine.
So we must raise them right,
Even if it seems like sending them out to be slaughtered,
They must leave their nests.
But they will carry their homes with them.
Let us give them kind homes to remember.

Dawn breaks heralded by the coming of doves.
Another storm is brewing.
But it will be fine because we have survived the previous ones.

---

Moonlight Illusion

On my back I gaze upon the azure sky
until the crimson moon flickers on.
Tainted by darkness the heavens illuminate the shimmering dots.
Beneath moon's glow I skip across the sandy beaches scanning the horizon,
Reminiscing about those gentle days,
we spent under the moon's warmth.
Waves crash silently upon the shore,
Until I finally see your translucent frame in the sea and call your name.
You turn around and with a smile extend your hand.
Running toward that outstretched hand,
the sun flickers on and like a desert's mirage you disappear.
Falling into the water I flail about until the waves spit me onto the shore.
I lay on my back and stare up at the azure sky,
waiting for that crimson moon once again.

---

Knowledge

I am not your enemy
but not your friend either.
Underestimate me at your own peril,
but overestimate me and you might find yourself in more danger.
You don't need to fear me,
but you should be wary of me.
In ancient times humans called me tablets,
then they named me paper
now they call me tablet again.
Will I be called paper next?
I am the future.
And I am moving faster than ever.
You cannot escape me while you live.
Even if you delay me till your death
I will find children, and your children's children.

---

Keychain

You were such a vibrant shade of black and white, you glistened
but thanks to my abuse you lost that shimmer but gained a new color - Dirty brown.
You sit contently, locked next to my keys.
Where it goes you follow, dragged along by your freakishly large head,
your mother regretted making it so big you know.
She told me how soft and malleable you were, before she cooked you in a furnace.
When she gave you to me, you were like a rock, strengthened from your mothers' treatment.
Your painted mouth always open, your ink blotched eyes stare unblinking.
I am amazed you haven't cracked from all the abuse I've put you through.
I considered throwing you through the window when the door wouldn't open,
but I relented because I know it's not your fault.
Even so I've broken others like you in less time, lost even more.
Is your durability a testament to your mother's craft?
Or could it be that I cherish you more than I think?

---

Seasons of Six

The Spring of birth guides a newborn's cries into the world.
In Summer, any stimulus gives rise to irritation.
By Autumn, the child wails less than before and sleeps more soundly.
Come Winter they learn of joy, for the giants shower them with attention affectionately.
Green leaves return and the birds sing, the child is brought out into a bright blue landscape.
The heat causes the child's body to ache and throb without understanding why.
Their hand stretches out to catch – a falling leaf.
The frigid temperature brings forth a bitter chill.
Wavering, the child takes their first steps. And promptly falls.
Grasping the hands of another they try again — this time they stand tall.
Tired of merely catching leaves they now chase after them as if they were a rarity.
The frosty temperatures confine them as they explore their territory.
They venture out and roam until they're breathless, yet there's still more to see.
The warmth of the sun lets them leisurely frolic.
Leaves wilt, time flows, less outside, more inside.
Their eyes light up at the sight of the inviting white blankets.
Green sprouts from the white, overtaking it until it consumes it all.

Their world expands yet again upon setting their sights on equals.
But this meeting with others brings forth conflict.
Yet learning to negotiate teaches them to be peaceful.
They grow accustomed to their guardian's absence because of the warmth of their return.
They spend more time with their guardian, cherishing the daily visits to the park.
Leaves wither like every year, yet parting grows no easier even if only for hours in the dark.
Slowly but surely snow returns as they do to their loved ones, one season at a time.

---

Natural World

The energetic gaze of the sun
is filtered through the leaves
of a sturdy oak.
Lightning sears the ground
the dead foliage ignites into a blaze
spurned on by the wind.
Water flows violently,
silently down a snaking path
until it drops
upon the rocks below,
etching into the earth
one micrometer at a time.
Snow falls unevenly,
piling upon the earth
until it plasters it
in an ephemeral layer
of tranquility.

The stars shine brightly,
while we stare
at these resplendent
echoes of the past.
The lanterns in the sky
illuminate the frozen,
reflective ground,
thus the illusory moon
on the lake's surface
radiate stability.
The moon
peers coldly and silently,
half heartedly, quarter heartedly,
and rarely
not at all.

---

Human Nature

Dreams are but a momentary lapse of reality,
ones that cannot last
no matter how sweet
or bitter they may be.
Cardinal winds bellow
across the oceans
while we wash ourselves
in their emotions.
Painting imbues an object
with your soul,
but being painted stains it
by another's palette.
We build and build,
and build up so much emotion
until we cannot contain it,
as vitriol spews forth
from beneath the layers.

Repose can be found in nature
as can fervor and indifference.
The world does not feign ignorance
about who or what observes it,
it simply does.
We determine what we see
or don't see.
We determine what we feel
or don't feel.
So, let us see
and feel good.

---

A Small Hope

Up high, a tiny sliver of luminescence is choked by dirty clouds.
The sun has died. All that is left is a memory of brighter days.
The nights grow longer, darker, encroaching reality.
Anguished tears weighted by gravity bludgeon the filthy
terrain merging into stagnant pools. They never ask why
the price for climbing the mountain of corpses is this blood-soaked sky.
Eyes covered and ears silenced to the symphony of fervent scrambling.
Rage and sorrow are converted into sound. Attacking with a torrent of lies.
No one challenges the castle of sand, they only see faux walls protecting the tyrant.
A self-consuming blaze erodes away the foundation heralding demise.
Will the walls crumble first, no longer able to shelter the ones inside?
Whether it burns or breaks, what will take its place? A castle of truths or lies?
Even so, we can be better than this,
though the sun is absent at night,
we know it will return to sight.

And so, reach upward,
be it an inch or less, toward
that tiny sliver of hope.

---

White

Snow stains the soil in its shade.
Books not yet borne purpose, bear this badge.
A mask to hide intent.
Sands and seashells bleached of their original shine.
A lonely plate, upon it grains of rice
Sustenance for the bones supporting the body.
Pale ghosts remembered by flowers
And tombstones weathered of character
Surrender to the passage of time.
Death, is the end
Their permanent place of peaceful slumber
While building a foundation for the future.
The beginning of pure souls
Fraught with joy will dye, and be
Dyed by the colours of the world.

---

Emotive

Passionately wild and fervid,
Are the volcanoes who can't contain themselves,
Erupting into an intense inferno.
Frigid and emotionally chilling to hold,
Glaciers meander about while the environment makes them
Expand or melt through mere contact.
Active and humid, tired and parched,
Forests drenched in dew, can quickly lose their moisture,
Never stagnating just as the seasons do.
Transforming, evolving, growing and shrinking
Like fashion trends, rivers twist, bend and coil over the passage of time,
They adapt to their circumstances enduring as long as they can.
Turbulent, tranquil, tormented and treacherous,
They are tempestuous when angry or a tranquil breeze when calm
Always transforming from one state to another.

---

Progression

Purple petunia petals skitter in the frigid gales.
Crawling on cracked eggshells suffering to keep them whole.
Reflected on the lake's surface, a scarlet image savagely sneers.
A lit match struggling to breathe under the pressure.
Past shackles the present while the string to the future is tangled and cut.
Cold consumes the mind lowering its courage to a specter of its capacity.
The nights run darker, and shadows swallow the moon.
Cracked crimson lines spiral into spiteful webs.
Descending into depravity, light dims deeper in the den of darkness.
Sorrow and lies intwine while the truth remains silent.
The ice thaws and the image cracks, a mirror no more.
Snowdrops bloom amidst the foliage during the fierce winter
A fresh wind purifies the stagnant air.
No season will last forever. No matter how hard they try.
Sakura petals play wistfully in the warm sunlight.

---

Bravery

The caged canary sleeps under cold bars.
Ebony feathers drift from the heavens,
Descending to the dry floor.
An arrow of curiosity strikes.
Outside the security of the cell lies adventure and the door was open.
A symphony of petals blinds the sight.
Illuminating tunes of celebration reverberate the ears.
The savory taste of nectar permeates the body.
Each experience more intense than the last, until equilibrium.
All that remains is awe and appreciation.
Finding the feathered bird shatters the fantasy.
Smoke and soot with sorrow seeps through the seams.
Words wound, and actions leave physical marks.
The canary flies back to the safety of its comfortable cage.
The sun and moon chase one another over and over again.
Another arrow never strikes again yet time has not healed the wounds.
Festering and growing, courage calls again this time humbled by the past.

The magic of the experience is muted but remains a fond memory.
The crow returns with its barbed tongue and sharp fangs.
The canary flinches but cries a hymn of hope.
A festival of feathers gathers, surrounding the two, piercing gazes at both.
Flinching the crow flees, afraid to return.
This canary will not be content in a cage.