Thought.......

The are a hundered butterflies and birds,

Fluttering inside me.

Fatal Beauty

Autumn is such a strange season.

It masks death with beauty.

Just when it becomes the most beautiful...

That beauty can only last for a day,

Then slowly,

Death comes.

Death turns the landscape into a colorless world.

The Dreaded Month

November is a rainy dreary month

Who all seem to dread

It drips and drips and drips

Upon all our heads

It is bleak and brown

Dark and Dim

Making our thoughts

Gloomy and Grim

Autumn

(Note: I normally do not write poems that rhyme, but I thought I would give it a try, tell me what you think.)

There are explosions of color,

The trees are giving their all,

They are pressing themselves further,

Before their leaves fall.

For this is there last chance

To show what makes beauty, beautiful

It puts the beholder in a trance

The trees are quite dutiful

To this act that makes life all the more so beautiful.

It is a sad season

In which trees give up their leaves

For it is the reason

That the cold wind and weather both become thieves.

The trees shall lie naked

Until the sweet breeze of spring,

Which is oh so sacred

Blows and makes the trees sing.

Life shall begin again

Things shall go on.

Trees will once again attain

The life they thought was forever gone.

Sometimes

(If you noticed, this poem is also used as my description on my profile, I hope you like it!)

Sometimes the world seems to be spinning slower.

You are waiting

Holding your breath.

Watching as time goes by...

Then suddenly something happens...

Something that makes your world faster.

You are suddenly flying.

Soaring

Nothing can touch you.

Dawn

Dawns breath is sweet and clean,

Yet it still holds some of the past evenings chill.

Which is soon to be replaced by days warm embrace.

Dawns light is soft and subtle,

Yet it wakes all that it touches.

It reminds them of the day to come,

All the things yet to be done.

June's Last Dusk

The cold hands of night are grasping at the air,
Trying to take hold of it,
Slowly winning the fight,
As it always does.

It's darkness is creeping in,
So slowly,
And with such stealth,
You don't even relies that it is dark until you take a second look.

The birds are all singing their fair well parting songs,
Not only to the day, but to the Days of June
It is their last song to grace June till another year has past.