Poetry

Some poetry I’ve written in the past couple months.

Morning

Soft and warm
The golden paths
And shadows
On the carpet.

Quiet footsteps,
It’s morning
And the baby’s
Still asleep.

Loss

Milky, fuzzy, sweet and soft
The odor still remains entombed
'Til mother lifting up the cloth
Escapes the scent into the room.

Nevermore this berth caress
The child of the morning’s ray
Forever lonesome by its loss
Youth is snatched and now decay.

Fallen

The crimson trees have dropped their leaves
A cool breeze nips his youthful face
A flock of geese are heading south.

The year is drawing to a close
Or is the next beginning now
When spring will come again?

His crimson arm has dropped its sword
A chilled wind bites his mortal wounds
Alone the vulture flies above.

His time is drawing to a close
But soon his next life shall begin
Where spring will come again.