TheMiscreant

Here are several poems I've wrote over the past week:

This one is a random rambling on the end of the world. It's my least favorite of the ones I've wrote recently.

Shame
it is
Doubt
it was

Souls can't mend,
and hearts can't love

Watch my eyes,
what is it you see?

Is it worth
the end of me?

Tremors shake,
and hands will break,
bones that bend
may never mend.

Shake your finger
up in the air,
there it is!
"Oh there, right there!"

Don't fear the end,
it comes in time,
and time is short
when time is sand.

Count your fingers,
count your toes.
Time is up!
Oh no! Oh no!

-----------------------------------

Here is another, it's uneven, and I don't much care for it.

Skeletons dance
in your closet.

People ask:
"What cause it, cause it?"

We don't know,
can't ever say.

But when you look,
they turn away!

You may ask,
"What dance they do?"

I think it's a polka,
and it's just for YOU!

And when you grow,
grow so old,
you will forget
all you're told.

But, don't cry child,
not to fear,
the skeletons
will ALWAYS be here!

You can tay all night,
and spend all day,
but when you die,
it's time to PAY!

------------------------------------

Here is my favorite of this batch:

Sand is time,
a grain a minute,
put it in glass,
let time waste in it.

And when all has past,
each grain is done,
turn upside down,
for another run!

------------------------------------

Meh, kinda lengthy, and no aim in sight. I really liked the opener though:

Pit pat on your windows sill.
Down comes rain,
let it heal.

And 'cause the wind
whistles so soft,
I can hear
every drop.

While the people all walk
out in the rain,
going nowhere
seems insane.

If I could walk,
and I could see,
and you had not took hold of me,
then I would run
out in the rain,
and splash and play
in this fair May.

--------------------------------

Soles of feet will travel 'round
yet never ever touch solid ground.

You please tell me, what seperate us?

Why, there are feet of concrete paved between us!

I see,
I say,
and so I do.
All blue above,
just gray bel'ew.

-----------------------------------

Finally, my last one, and it needs length:

That Cossack man,
He stands real sly.
With a hat so high,
His boots so low,
it's no wonder
He goes to places
where it always snows.

Falstaff

reminds me of some Russian poetry, sort of a Russian Haiku...

__________________