About Me~, art, Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing




It is Spring.

Or so they say.

The first day of that season,

which calls to new things. Green and bright.

The vernal equinox.

Equal parts,

glitter, and night.

I find Spring to be short-lived.

Perhaps it’s maudlin of me.

Spring seems easy. So colorful; flowers gold and purple.

But Spring is hard and born of death.

All the rotted things of Fall and Winter ,

feasted on by the bright young cannibals of  the now.

Fantasy wardrobes spun from worm-tossed bulbs left under snow,

last year.