The Pasture Spring

Cream colored pages, flipping and flapping,  Cutting the finger that fed it, the eyes That gave the deadless ink life, crying Silently, dreading its own black demise.   Red is the page that has cut the thumb, blood Rains down the hand, but pain makes prose sweeter; For what is prose but merely poesy, rud,  Swollen by left-brained minds and no meter.  So do I turn from poesy to fiction, much less At the hand of a book who I so care For as a child? My mind giving mindless Ink life? No, for it does not dare. I am no more prose than poesy, fiction; Let the book lie in silence’s diction. 

How plump and orange is my love beside The porch chair, sitting slouch’d from august heat.  Bought too soon, she rots from the inside, So she will never hear, “trick or treat.” “You’re too far gone to roast and eat as pie,  And while your skin, though tough, is keeping taught,  There’s no amount of spice enough to lie About your age and keep you young,” I thought.  She bakes from the inside out, a Pumpkin Pie devoid of love and flavor, my vain Attempts at being festive, I jumped in  Too quickly onto the seasonal train.  You die in shame, in heat, in grief, and why When all I wanted was a piece of pie?