Cliché

Do not buy her
Rings and roses;
For she will fall
For them, not you.

The Waltz

A step ahead,
A step behind,
Your hand in mine,
We waltz to time.

Turquoise Transcendence

The sand crunched in protest under his feet as he walked. The sun beat cruelly on his brow, calling forth new beads of sweat to replace those rolling down his cheeks and into his shirt. The dry wind smothered his clean shaved face with a veritable tempest of dust and sand that precipitated on the sweat, serving to dull and age the man’s visage.

Tempest

A drop of rain comes trickling down
The mist upon my window pane;
As with every falling drop
Come pouring down a thousand thoughts,
That constellate before my eyes
And set my mind aflame.

Muffled

Eight year old Myra

Was an extraordinary girl;

She’d recite all the alphabets

While giving her hair a twirl.

But, Eight year old Myra

Was quite naughty as well;

She’d go door to door, and run

After pressing on the bell.