Upon Gossamer Wings

There are bats about. They are persistent. And they carry with them none of the ferocious mystery we stamp upon their fragile, winged frames. No, instead they come emboldened with a whiff of the past enmeshed within their fuzzy backs. And they carry along the warm fall breeze a melancholy cry that reminds us of our youth, of a time when things seemed simple because they were so very complicated.

We stand on balconies, in yards, in fields of grass, and we cock our heads to their whispers. Because they speak directly to us.

It is time for the harvest. Despite the great droughts, despite the angry, punishing winds. It is time for the leaves to let go of their tentative holds and meander to the ground like the words that fall from our mouths upon the mossy ground of deaf ears.

There are fires being lit in hearths. There is soup in the kettle. There are lies to sort through, and a grey deception that tugs our hearts. Tonight, the truth will come. It will come, like an epic tide. And we are powerless before it. We can lie on the ground, in a ball, and we can succumb to the promise of our indifference. Or we can stand upright, stock still, and we can open ourselves to the warmth of our potential. And we can dream.

There are bats about. But tonight, the truth will come.

Shimmering Pools of Regret

I haven't posted much recently. Weep a bit. Now shut the fuck up and get over it.

Like poems? Feeling like shit? Share your favorite verse of this sort. Better still, write something on the subject. Consider this your forum for hurt.

Send me your pathetic poems via this email: johncramer68@ gmail . com. And if I don't hate it, you'll be immortalized in a blog nobody ever reads. I'll post it under our generic user log in. If you want credit, let me know, and tell me what handle you want to use. Pussies go anonymous. But if you happen to be of this ilk, so be it. Hey, It's like Christmas for morons!

Now get to work. Make my black heart proud. It's nice to have minions.