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Winter December came, not a lot of snow came blowing in,Winter by ~andar90
But plenty of shivers were carried on the wind
Here and there on the edges of autumn twilight.
Finally, Christmas being done, the snow saw fit to come
And people moaned and groaned without a break
As if they hadn't seen it all before.
What will it take to get these folks to play?
The leaves, they had to go, one way or another,
And even before the flakes came pouring in they
Trembled and tumbled from their lofty spaces,
Old and fragile, ready to be taken.
Now, they merely rest beneath winter's soft and snowy breast,
Asleep to all the mourning world like children in a
Soft warm bed
A Sense of Touch It begins with a sense of reaching, venturing through the cold,A Sense of Touch by ~andar90
Ice forms in the void and stings your skin,
Heart flutters in anticipation,
Hand trembles in the heavy time of waiting,
Lightning strikes.
Holding hands, or a brush on the shoulder
And silence stretches out for years.
To touch is not to touch,
To touch is to feel,
To touch and be touched…
Surges of fire across the surface and
Flowing rivers of emotions.
Lightning fills every emptiness like
Liquid heat in blissful agony,
A warmth pulsing with every heartbeat,
Growing…receding…growing…searing…
Touching is burning,
Dying,
And then rising.
Heaven Hatred is everywhere and all at once it chokes us,Heaven by ~andar90
Fear is everywhere and all at once it binds us,
Ignorance is everywhere and all at once it blinds us,
Cruelty is everywhere and all at once it kills us.
But in the silent hours,
When our body's health does leave us,
And our spirit lives outside us,
Our chains will fade away.
In death no one will beat us,
Break, or tie, or hurt us,
Tear us down or tease us,
In death we will be free.
The fire will not burn us,
And frost no longer freeze us,
And God no longer frighten us,
In death we will be free.
We'll be safe from spite and hatred,
And our talent no longer wasted,
On that lon
The Closet In my life, three garments have I worn,The Closet by ~andar90
And they are old and tattered,
Torn, the binding cloth of infanthood
Too small to fit a young lady,
They are marked by the moth bites of my wedding dress,
Hung up in a closet with a rip in the shoulder
Where overeager hands once grasped and pulled,
And they cover old and dusty surfaces, like my veil,
Painted black to hide a widow's grief.
My closet is empty now, and no clothes remain to fill it.
Oh, but I would fill it with the bones of my husband,
Bleached white with the train of my wedding dress,
The dress that was too tight in the waist,
The skull could wear the veil that makes my nose i
Joy 
Sta.sh
"Never take life too seriously. Nobody gets out alive anyway."
