It’s been a while.
Summer flares in rebellion to autumn’s swift approach, and children’s days become a little shorter, a little less exciting (except for those who need not be taught).
For a season of death, fall brings such welcome tidings as sunburnt memories ferment like fine champagne.

“For the Lilies”

As I write this you lie sleeping in the room beside me.
A few days from now you’ll be gone once again, and I don’t know what I’ll do.
We always think we have just a little longer, even with the finish line in sight.
And though already you’ve gone, I still linger each time I pass by your door.

I dream as the sun rises because I can choose when to tend,
The furtive plowman digs deep, sowing victory into dead ends.
And as I plan another dozen summers sipping wine with dear friends,
Somewhere, pulsing deep, the heartache still mends.

“Drafted in B minor”

She looks into you as the camera comes out of frame,
You feel your pulse pounding as the blood bursts in your veins.
He will consume you and take all but your name,
You breathe in the fire as you swallow the pain.

They feed on their energy, the world dancing to their needs,
Drawing a horror spectacle as both beauties start to lead.
They were to marry in a graveyard amidst dandelions and rotting leaves,
Because they wanted to show their lost children life persists beneath dead trees.

Locked in their eye-lines, they’re perfectly strange.
Walking step-in-step, they burn in each other’s brain.
We can see through them, and yes they are same.
But we could not hope to try and understand their game.

Tearing into thee it woke you from the dream,
Destroying piece-by-piece the blueprint of what you need.
Calling for help you’ll fight to salvage the scene,
Trying in vain to re-draw the map from the little you’ve gleaned.

But more than this I wonder is there anyone that still knows,
The tale of the little prince and his dainty, precious rose?
Then again looking back I suppose it’s all just prose,
And in the end that’s how every story goes.