The City Of Trees

Light from stars
Merge with the lights
From cars
And from men with scars.
The trees pass by in a blur
And are still visible clearly,
Branches spidery, 
Across the inked-in sky.
This city, a forest,
Not of concrete,
But of actual trees.
I see its soul
Through the four sided frame
Of black spectacles.

-A (@firstdraftpoet on twitter)



There is a point in time
When those who were
With you for a while,
Under a shared umbrella,
Weathering the storm together,
Have to follow their own path.
And you are left with
Imprints of their presence,
The memory of what had been
A happy time,
And the last few drops of rain.



It was a mist of colour, 
And he emerged
From the floating hues
Of pink and blue and green
As he chased after
The one who had him
She slipped between his fingers,
Much like sand,
And time,
And laughed as she disappeared
Into a waft of red.



Some days,
You have to be selfish.
You have to tune out
The misplaced advice,
Of the world,
And instead,
Tune in to yourself.
Because noone
Will fight for you
As hard as
You will.


Beauty Of God

The beauty Of God
Is what we search for,
Each breath,
Each beat
Of our battered hearts.
The beauty of God
Is what the world lost
When it embraced
The black hate,
And raised hands in attack.
The beauty of God
Is what man needs
To redeem
Any hope of surviving
In the dark night
Waiting on the horizon.
The beauty of God
Is found
In the faces of those
That give with their heart
To those that search.



Sometimes you don’t need
Someone who’s life began
In the same gamete
As yours did.
You find your family
Your siblings
Your parents
In the faces of Strangers.
These strangers
Will cross your path
One day.
All you have to do
Is wait.



We hate each other,
To the point where
Muttered expletives
And Stomped feet
Just don’t quell
The anger.
But the hatred
Is what drives us.
Bonds us.
It is the moments
Of screamed insults
And thrown things
That stay with us
That show
What the other means to us.



Loving was an addiction.
I have been deaddicted,
The people,  the feelings,  the dreams,  Nothing is the same again.
The lovesongs,  stories,  imagination,
Nothing can satisfy my craving now.



She opens the dusty pages
Carved through by bookworms
And glimpses herself.
The image of her
Through each sundried page
Looks familiar
But distorted in detail,
Like seeing your face
Flipped in a mirror image.
The image is her
But also a stranger.
Time warps the image.
That is what years do to you.



In a few years,
I will be all that you wanted me to be,
I will be all that you could not,
And I will take you
To see the wildflowers bloom
And you will smile
And I will watch you grow young again.