The Artist

The doors to the double storey mansion slammed open, flooding the courtyard with a warm glow. A tall, lean silhouette emerged from inside. A large sack was slung over his left shoulder and he carried a shovel in his arms. A loud rumble from above made him glance skyward. Dark, heavy clouds were filling the moonless sky.

Chitter

Cockroaches.
Scuttling along the floor,
Up the wall and down again,
Six legged monstrosities,
Flying in our faces, eating all our trash.

Trickle

Trickle little drop of rain

Dancing on my window pane,

      Trickle slowly down the glass
      Till at last the sill you pass,
Trickle down the wall below
Conceived of sky of indigo,
      Trickle down into the earth
      Quench its thirst and promise birth.

Letters

The pale rays of the harvest moon fall upon the fluttering curtains of the open balcony on the second floor of the massive Victorian mansion. Her flowing white dress reflects them, making her glow like a pale beacon in the dark room in which she sits. Her poise has not faded since she first assumed her pose, almost 12 hours ago. The clouds in the sky have gone on their way, but her bright blue eyes have not stopped staring at the space in the heavens, they once called their own.  A lone raven is perched on the parapet, screaming his laments, piercing the shroud of mournful silence that envelops the house.

Beautiful

Why do I think you’re beautiful?

It’s not your silky, satin dresses,

Or your curly curtain tresses,

Or the glow that gently blesses

Whichever path you tread.