#originalpuddleofpoems

I have friends who travel down on the bullet train every other week.  They’re a funny bunch who stay a short while and leave just as fast as they come.  

They’re old friends of mine, so I don’t mind when they intrude.  They come dressed in scarlets and rouge, blushing reds and sweet cherry.  

I think about them a lot.  Even though they’re gone, I know that they’re still here-with me.

An instrument cast aside because of its intimidating size. Though not as graceful and quite large for such a scale an instrument almost forgotten plays.

A mellow, gentle glide of its bow causes a ripple of sound to reach the back of the music hall. Its reverberations soar and echo like a little blue bird in the spring.

Sleeping bodies blanketed by the warmth of snow drift

*･゜ﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*･

I gently brush my hand along the side of the wall, it’s now painted red

*･゜ﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*･

Red ribbons gracefully dance and dissolve as if they were never there

*･゜ﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*･

Brittle yellowing pages bound together

All ugly and worthless but treasure’s held

within.

_

Put off, cast aside

Never daring to open those cursed

cutting edges, for they are only books

To be shelved away.

__

Ary endings and happy ones too, for

She did not care; the mistake in the

Crossroads, the opening of the gate.

That damned pumpkin seed to the fatal axe swing.

___

Vengeance she sought for every book

Must pay, to let bitter tears dry and

Stain her pale pretty face. A heart twice removed,

A fox, an owl, and a raccoon.

____

As bitterness remained heads were maimed

She paid the toll for heads will roll

A stupid mistake, a thought changed too late

Trapped in a well she created a new hell.

_____