a fall evening

there is something magical about fall evenings.
like old photographs in sepia.
a soft fading of the images
like cushioning times blows
 the skies peep silver
behind mountains of grey
 and across them, the trees
spread cobwebs which glint
and wink with drops of rain
 there is something defiant about fall evenings.
 as the day looks its fate in the face

love's assumptions and liberties
will sometimes waft
into a dream
in an hour between late night
and early morning
like the hint of a fragrance on a breeze
and be gone, before you can be quite sure
if you imagined it

it was a day full of sun-warmed grace
it was a day of ambling down
almost familiar lanes life gurgling inside,
and bubbles of words floating up in the breeze
then suddenly evening came.
and the bubble burst

there an almost missed train as i walked by the station, an older man and a young boy, suddenly woke up from the conversation they were lost in and scrambled out of the car when the whistle blew there was an air of affection underlining annoyance as drivers half-smiling as they squinted into the near-blinding sun there was a story abandoned in labour there was laughing stumbling and awkwardness as the forgetten words, lives, and selves were re-embraced possibly the last time before this life dies

it feels like the nights
 are the best parts of the days
in the night dreams
bring us back memories
the days sunlight
softly fades
but you have bear the reality of a day
to earn each night

when there is no escape,
to dream of escape
becomes an escape

winter falls

after the last burst of colours
trailing summers bloom
in the soft bittersweet poignancy of fall
winter sets in.
bleak and cold
with an occasional bright sunny day; and often
a dark stormy spell.
cold days with sharp winds and the little leaves that have died
fallen of the trees run away from the wind in hordes,
like little children but mostly
the days are just empty, like the branches of the trees

what you feel is your problem
what you do not, is mine

she said, how do you know this story so well? i said, i was ensnared by a man who was captured by a girl who was in love with this place except, none of us saw the golden goose

few understand how badly i failed perhaps i even failed at failing

quiet desperation is when you feel like your insides will burst. when you want to cry scream or jump off a bridge. when there is no hope no end no escape. when you most desperately want a friend, but know you are most absolutely alone. but when you stare blankly at a empty wall. or laugh and talk to people around about in-consequentialities. for sharp sudden fits. like vertigo. inbetween long days and nights of feeling blank while you stare blankly at a empty wall

i had never been able to finish reading anna karenina. its too sad. yesterday someone let slip that she dies in the end. i feel so sad ... yet its fitting. anna had to die. as maggie died (mill on the floss). as the same someone said, when you make love your god, that love becomes a demon. then you either have to run away from it, or if you cant, then you have to die yourrself that is why patricia (breathless) turns him in. she sees that once she falls under his spell there will be no escape, no "she" left that is why Lucy dies if not they would become what heathcliff became i think its a disease, letting someone else become a part of you too much & for too long. its a natural & important capacity to be able to (mother child, start of affair, community bonding) grown dis proportionate & malignant like a cancer

and still i loveyou like the road still chases the destination after the journey is over and the traveler is done & has departed and still you cant take the road back

after the last burst of colours trailing summers bloom in the soft bittersweet poignancy of fall winter sets in. bleak and cold with an occasional bright sunny day and often a dark stormy spell and cold days with sharp winds and the little leaves that have died and fallen of the trees run away from the wind in hordes, like little children but mostly the days are just empty, like the branches of the trees

silent nights quiet houses little sounds of a world curling up to sleep the urgent whistle of the train softly in the distance a call to the road betrayed by a gypsy out of breath the untimely chirp of a bird somewhere outside the house wandering a cat i cant love and a few restless unsorted memories