Drought

A baby is born.

A tear comes to eye.

When this one’s my age

the world will be dry

yet swollen seas

pound mountain shores.

Great cities will lie

on ocean floors.

The greedy refined

will run rampant then.

For a glass of water

they’ll kill a friend.

Corpses in the surf.

Decay everywhere.

At the foot of an angel

I grimace and stare.

Roses 

Roses and memories

of smooth inner thighs

parting with promises

misunderstood.

Velvety petals

wind caught and gone.

Leaving a fragrance 

of something lost.

Thorny spines 

grabbed in haste. 

Pain and flowing

rose bloody red.

The Traveler

It’s always best

to shed the weight

of doubts induced

accumulate

and inflate

the laden pack,

bending the straight

and rigid back,

brittle with age,

hardened by fire,

miles to go

must not tire

blistered feet

on a dusty road

where time is worth

more than gold.

Freedom

I held freedom

in my hand,

like a glowing orb

it shone,

in the middle 

of nowhere

I stood alone.

Now what? I wondered 

and the orb vanished

when I took a step

then reappeared

when I stepped back.

I was finally free

but hungry, cold,

forgotten and alone

and all that time

the orb brightly shone.

by Dave