and your deviations of the Month are:
Winter is ComingI hear the wind's raspy requiem
Bid farewell to a long lost friend,
What melancholy strains touch my eyes
As I hear the last song of a flute
Which plays in melodies of ache
From the heart of seasons past,
Nature's bled, yet ne'er this hue
And amber cloaks the morning dew.
Weakening wings that turn and tear
In hope of quietus or sunshine
Relay in fear, both near and far
A hundred tales of golden days,
And by and by, a vengeful mist
Settles over the dying land,
There are no more tales to tell
As open the gates of a colder hell.
And time shivers the night away
In spasms of rain, hail and snow,
And the feeble day lies in slumber
Shy to clear his strident throat,
Enfevered are the Graces
That dressed the rich yesterday,
Mother Nature does the poorest save;
Few beds are warmer than the grave.
The last leaf prances in the air
Free from the manacles of birth,
And now the quiet hours approach
Of solitude and remembrance.
A whisper sheaths another quill,
A prayer weaves another will,
I Was On A CloudI was the boy who remained silent
Through those weeks, months and years
Watching the tide begin to rise
From all of your fallen tears
A tide of insecurity
That in time became so deep
It would set about draining you
Of all the secrets that you keep
I was the boy who remained mute
I watched your life unfold from above
As you were shattered with pain
And given false hope with love
So many times I was tempted
To come and heal my angels pain
But up above in the blue sky
For now at least I would remain
I was the boy who stayed silent
A hush so deafeningly loud
You were never alone though
Princess, I was on a cloud
I watched as all of these things
Came to pass down below
And why didn't I intervene?
I had faith that alone you would grow
Reflected InspectionReflected Inspection
Here I am again examining my disfigured figure in the mirror.
Fondling my fat wishing I could trim it down with a pair of scissors.
Relentlessly poking, prodding and picking at my face.
Leaving behind nothing but a black, coarse and scabby trace.
Furiously patting down my cheeks begging them to be smaller.
Standing on the edge of my toes willfully imagining that I am taller.
Folding my ears inwards commanding them to decrease in size.
Hysterically trying to find the beauty they said existed in my eyes.
Scrutinizing my nose using my hands to mould it into my desired shape.
Impatiently withdrawing my stomach to wonder how I would look if I lost some weight.
Slapping my overlapping thighs repeatedly, persuading them to become firmer.
Grasping the pair of scissors at my throat with the intent of committing my own murder.
Thinking to myself how can anyone ever find me remotely attractive?
And how can I ever expect myself to be regularly sexually active.
With me looking