Creepy Fog

On the note of dawn, the leaves were struck by dew.
Not quite the smog, the song that bled in the air,
White fog  and pure, whining over Creepy Bog,
Her sombre waves, her motionless crust.
A sword for greens that would face the day,
The drips that fell from the thickness of morn,
Feeding life for tomorrow's dream, while
Sun and its owners plan to rankle who reside,
Proclaim itself the bog's only morning bride.
The oak in the southern marsh though would still smile,
For it has heard  the ballad of pollens flown,
Once when it first learned, then again every May.
True, life bred itself amid death's promise and trust,
As it's seeds of hope ply unnoticed in fog.
Chirps of the sparrows  amass in spring's annual fair.
In stealth of the summer, of course, pollens are few.

Froth

I crossed the road in a boat,
When the levies were drowning in asphalt.
You may want your life in parables,
Or take my problems if you want some.
And, like a wage too high,
I see the morning bride,
Boasting of shine through the day,
Toasting to none but itself.
Alike the froth over snow,
Within winter's wicked lore,
The light through sunset will fade away,
As daylight calls it a day.
The night and its mermaids will remain,
As memory of a life kept in pain.
A furrow in the face of my dreams,
A boat I bought last birthday,
But needed a river too, not today.

Lurker

It would have descended upon the conscience of some as a seemingly  deceptive memorabilia , a tyrannical artifact breaching history of it's ability to evade truth, a hoax treasure demeaning  the glory off the deserved. It would have appealed the protests of the anguished, the cynical, the suspicious, for it bore nothing that would prove justice reigned in yesteryears . It would have crawled into the undiscovered lanes of history without a trail of appreciation or a trace of greatness, lying orphaned by the patrons of everything against what it stood for. It would have freed light years of angst and leagues of despair had it not earned itself an inspiration, the massacres and tortures that widowed and warred with impartial agility and brutality. It could have also succumbed to some disaster, decayed from within , led an unnoticed life in some forgotten corner of existence. It could have, had we not been so helpless and perplexed in avenues of bemoaning the unrighteous, berating the unforgiven, betraying the attractive, for our conscious is so truly deserted when we are basking in the magnificent.

Neural Weed

Ponds, water's sold, not a soul,
Who'd bathe in them for
Greeting a new sun.
They'd take a second snore.
Wet, feelings get, but forget,
A door would cease its day,
Their day's else for.
Clouds aren't bred , aren't flown.
Dead, in their ways, in their bed,
While preachers praise their Lords,
They gaze through halos.
Dead in their own ways, I suppose.
Ask, who fake, cared and masked,
If they'd spare , a second for a sky,
Blue , brilliant, shy.
I get it. Third snore? Aye.

An ode through the night

Jingles and jollies when Christmas was far,
Carols of a time God forbade each avatar,
A road through the oceans my sailor then led,
Alone through the night,with an ode to the day.

Fingers and fortunes fought to go back,
And sailor of May knew these he won't lack,
For the grace of men who sought to care,
He bore a thought, and thoughts he'd bare.

They would all say something.
They would all think for best.
They would all think they think
And think you don't unless
They find themselves in you
Or a mirror to gaze.
All they'd look for in me,
A pinch of similarity
And what grace, he couldn't guess
When only thyself thee praise.

Hope will breathe with each luring fray
And my sailor razed the seas through weeks in May,
The doldrums and storms, the realms of the blue
The sharks below his raft,fables of fishes too.

Every next emotion twitched a muscle less,
And those that twitched hailed no witness.
A road without trails, my sailor thus traced,
An ode through the night, alone to the day.