Grief

Wrote this after reading up on American Indian history,so that's the backdrop for the poem.
Also,as the title suggests, I wasn't exactly feeling on top of the world at the time.


I dreamt the dreams of better days
For they felt so far away
Of selfless love, and come-what-mays
Grew darker, day by day.

Gone, was the spirit, the fierce pride
Shriveled up, like autumn leaf
The shell was empty, nought inside
Nought remained, but grief.
 
Gone was the calm, my heart defiled
Filled with night even in day
Grief, not for the widow, nor fatherless child
But grief, for the the death of the way.

Still, my eyes well up with grief
Dripping from my lashes
To see the chief, no longer a chief
Living in his own ashes.



ciao

Up In Smoke

She woke up, about half an hour after daybreak, to the chirping of the birds outside.

I was watching.

She began to change her clothes, and I felt little tingles run down my spine, as I watched the layers come and go.

~most people don't usually change with the curtains drawn back, with nothing but a large french window between your privates and the great outdoors, but that false sense of privacy is exactly why you pay top dollar for a remote chalet in the Tuscan countryside~

In any case, I was quite happy given the present circumstances.

And before you ask, YES.

I did zoom in for a closer look.

Most guys would, given the chance.

For she had an exquisite body.
The sort of body that wouldn't just make most men break into a sweat, but the sort that would invariably land its owner in deep water (as seems the case here).

As I watched her walk out into the driveway, something made me want to change my very way of life, maybe find myself a nice mamacita, settle down somewhere sunny, restore an old '68 charger, hell, maybe even raise a family.

As that last thought soured in my mind, I decided it probably had something to do with the size of her breasts.

And her car.

Ooh, fancy women, and fancy cars.

Truly, a match made deep, deep down in the fires of hell.

A Maserati, a worthy example of Italian opulence, and their skill with cars.

Under its hood, lay a 4.7-litre V8, twin-turbo, with a 6-speed gearbox,the works.

You know me, couldn't help but check.

I really would have loved to hear her roar, but my thumb was already pressing down hard on the detonator in my hand.

Man, I hate my job.