The Last Leaf

Last yellow leaf on Oldesong tree
that looks over the valleyside,
sways golden in the sunset wind
like a silent sigh that echoes
like soft, fading laughter
ringing through the hollow sky.
Last yellow leaf on Oldesong tree
gazes at the half-moon like a question.

T. E. Pyrus

Advertisements

When…

darkness dissolves into sunsets,
stars fall through midnight like rain,
flickering streetlamps sleep soundly,
seconds count minutes in vain,

the wind forest’s net catches moonlight,
the sunrise soaks into the land,
oceans are mountains of dewdrops,
mountains are soft breaking sand,

clear winds break clouds into laughter,
the blushing gold autumn is shy,
all of these moons burn like snowstorms,
the wanderer, quiet, tiptoes by.

T. E. Pyrus

only rest,

I wrote this in response to a challenge: Write about what it’s like to live with a mental illness.

is that the music of time,
like the sound of rain
when tired drops that survived the storm
drip placidly from distant treetops,
through hollow darkness that shut-eyes and nighttime bring?
the absurdly enticing stars
fall out of the decorated sky
and shatter like twinkling ice,
like flakes of glass that yearn the stinging blood.
the soil beneath breathes and lives,
the wilting grass that roughly braids your hair
is damp, and slightly warm,
like the empty spaces in memory
where joy and laughter are faded dreams.
drip-drop, tick-tock, suns rise and moons set,
the air embraces the ground here,
don’t try to move your fingertips,
don’t raise your hopes,
don’t close your eyes,
don’t listen as the seconds fall, then melt away,
as if they steal your love and wonder and life,
feel your fingers claw into the soothing wind,
only rest and sink into the loving earth.

T. E. Pyrus

brighter times

candlelight dances on the old silver pendulum clock.

lightning rips dark lilac clouds
like headlines rip the front page
of the dusty newspaper from brighter times.

the pendulum lights and shadows printed names
in bold and black, and a photograph of smiles,
eleven- twelve- thirteen times-

’til thunder cracks through counting wind
like the cold, brass lock and key
that locked away those brighter times.

T. E. Pyrus

Daily Prompt: Paper

Stormwind Castle

Rays of sunshine shuffle in
through lone and dusty corridors
and spill over stone windowsills
in the Stormwind castle.

The green glass bottle twinkles bright
with raindrops’ summer lightning dance
where weathered staircases of stone
break into grassy forest.

Wheels and white mares clatter down
the road not taken, ’round the hill
with velvet, flutes, and princesses
who dream of moon fall music.

Stormwind wanders softly through
sun-crushed walls and doorless rooms
then to Thunder’s heartbeat sings
upon the nightstorm tower.

T. E. Pyrus

Daily Prompt: Bottle

like a painting in the sky…

Sometimes I watch the nighttime chase
the painted sun across the sky,
and rest upon the purple trail
of sprightly moons that flurried by,

while sunset birds carve glowing sounds
of windy calm on coral clouds,
and stars of dusk bring violet, coarse,
to softly blend into dark.

constellations wake the sky
and stir still wind and mist and trees
with precious dreams of morning light
and lilting song and laughing breeze.

T. E. Pyrus

whispered songs

the vague whispers of the changing wind
sometimes pause –

then break into a hearty song
of red leaves softly rustling,
and bubbling laughter skipping over
stepping stones across the stream,
the closing of the oven door
and cinnamon and pumpkin pie,
and crackling in the fireplace,
quilts and blankets, lullabies,
and darker nights and halloween,
ghosts of christmas, trick or treat,
dreams to live and days to love,
family and friends to meet

– and quietens to a steady stream
of whispered songs of quieter things…

T. E. Pyrus

Limits

One day, I will be blind.

I’ll while away my worries
by the fire that’s warm
and crackling, dark; reminiscing tuesdays
and my little red winter boots
that left those footsteps in the snow.
Sometimes, I’ll forget how it felt
to wake to daylight.

I’ll wander into afternoons,
slow and savouring each footfall,
the wafting wind of dry leaves
as they crunch beneath my feet,
probably brown and gold, and
maybe the sun felt warmer
when the sky was blue.

I’ll stir a bright orchestra
of clouds of oranges and pinks
in my mind, and wonder exactly
how green the blades of grass
crushed between my fingers are,
and how many melancholic days
one can live on limited sunsets.

I’ll taste the winds for singing rain
or strong impending storms with thunder
and no lightning to wreck this woeful
soul of sorrow and drench in tears
this heartless heart and cool
this wilful mind of vanity
that will always chase the past.

I’ll lie upon comforting sands
by seas I once gazed upon in awe,
like timeless heartbeat, crashing waves
and salt in the damp breeze, rolling tides
and the moon that’s long said goodnight
once for all; stars and stars, and falling stars
that burn and fade like loving smiles.

One day, I will be blind.

T. E. Pyrus