Grey drenches memories.

It comes in waves,

in floods.

It swallows the color,

the life,

drains the pictures one holds dear.

Silver clippings

of auburn hair

cover the table

in a way 

only her smile

could,

and does.

The scissors hold

a grace unlike that of

a widow,

yet unlike that of

virgin lust.

She who cuts

not only cuts that of the

physical.

She who shapes

is a widower of

god.

On the eighth

day the light

begins to fade.

The march

to newer gods

is beaten

to the gong

of thunder,

whirlwinds

and plague.

Profligate bounty

is spent

leaf by leaf

and tree by tree

till the bank

is empty.

Resources

dissipate like

rain on a

hot grate

as the planet

fumes and curses

at poor

stewardship.

And all the time

the anger

of the elements

plays counterpoint

to the sighs

of the hungry.

Mars rises

again in rage

and strikes

the anvil to awake

the forces

that slumber.

But sand veils the eye,

greed consumes,

and wisdom weeps,

while nuclear

fires smoulder

and never sleep.

Every bottle holds a story,

a single tear of

past

future

now.

Galaxies upon galaxies are 

dreamt into feathers of

tomorrow,

birthed by the bygone bottles

of the moon.

Every child grows (and knows) 

the tale,

every man weaves his

thread.

Sisters and cousins

learn to be by the bottle,

the cocoon of life,

to be wary,

to grow in a

religion only the bottle 

holds.

Every bottle

holds a story,

a tear,

a feather,

a thread,

a religion.

Every bottle holds the dead.

Songs of hope

of red roses and white

from years to come and to years past;

of smiles

and trees

turned to tears

worn by cycles of the moon;

of sorrow

and green gables 

covered by masks

of gold;

of love

and feathers

painted as tasks 

essential.

Songs.

With devils in demand

I cannot still my hand

Lost my morals; gave in

My only goal is sin

Gods are at a discount

So I will take my mount

And I'll spread my gospel

The world: my own brothel

False saints cannot stop me

My soul, forever free

Their lies will be torn down

And I will wear the crown

And high up on my throne

Only one thing is known

My sin is now virtue

Cycle begins anew

The glinting of imagination reflecting;

the essence of undefined beauty erupting.

Paper...the mirror of the author's mind,

radiantly rebounding the array of vision.

My name is Josh, I have been writing for a little under a year.  I have been on prose just under a month. My career is as a design drafter and writing is one of my hobbies. I was not your typical writer type when I was in my school years.  I love to read and always have, but I was more of your athletic "jock" type in school. It is since that I have found my love of writing. In the past year, I have written more than 50 poems and around 30,000 words in an online serial novel, The Unseen War. (Now available to read on prose). I have been drawn to prose by the amount of people here who not only write but also read. I encourage honest feedback as I want to always be growing as an author and writer of poetry. Though my time dedicated to writing is small, my imagination never stops spinning stories and words together. Maybe someday I will have enough written to publish a book and make a couple bucks. Maybe I will publish and only have spent time and money. Either way, I will continue to write because I love to do it. Thank you all for being a great group of readers and writers. Prose On!

I am the sound of snow falling.

I am the warmth in your soul

When you hold a hand.

I am the music of the night.

I am the kiss on your mind

When you finally understand.

I am the whispering wind.

I am the light in your eyes

When you gaze at the stars.

I am the beat of your heart.

I am the lump in your throat

When you have to go.

I am your beginning and end.

Forever and always,

I am your friend.

Every now and then the stars align, and

everyone told me love was blind.

Baby, heaven's in your arms. 

I bless the rains down in Africa, I

baptize my soul with the help of your waters.

Take me to church.

In a land of Gods and Monsters I was an angel,

I s[aw] fire burning the trees.

Good God, let me give you my life.

Every time I close my eyes it's like a dark paradise,

no one compares to you.

Heaven help a fool who falls in love.