The ash had fallen round about the mountain and she waits Her remnants covered fields of green with black and dusty night. After her eruption came a quiet death, a state Of cold and distant solitude and some quaked at the sight. But come the morning light, the fire Has
He wrote without hope Ink fades, his sorrow made A noose from a rope. postscript Not much to be earned in the arts, usually. Day three of --The Brazilian rhyming haiku. fav.me/daq8spu
Fair mistress of the skies, demurely, Oh how she hides her face from those Who want no more than light, and truly, A sweet release from dark. She goes So thoughtless to the bereaved children Of the light, and will not hear them, She hides away in bitter gray, Too
The winter comes on lazy wings and brings us frost and cold, While autumn beat retreat with care, grown brown, and bent and old. Though winter likes to come each year with laugh as cold as ice, It chuckled softly in this year in repentance of all vice. But maybe
Will time perhaps begin to dull the edge Of sharpened pain, bled long into the night? The clock has stronger powers, some allege Than any form of salve or balm despite The tempting call of sleep or drink or ought Which promises to soothe the deepest pain. The arms of