BabyThere stand the little statues,Baby by bookbrink
Melting like fading rain into cracked graves,
Like gifts from
actors who never seem to show.
Grass acts as Mother to the young stones
braced to the cold touch of child's curious fingers,
But only one lone stone lies
off on the edge
of the crying yard,
Where thick trees stretch out from behind
torn barbed fence
to scratch at the one lonely stone, as if to offer a hug for a grave
hidden in dead twigs.
Baby, they called him.
The oldest and smallest of the many stones, all still
lined up like soldiers in the
lull of autumn fighting –
something like a hunched old man with a
young man's mind and thudding heart,
all grime and mossy letters (the few of which he wears),
played on his breast.
An April babe, witness to only one shower,
But it wasn't the last he ever saw; he sees plenty.
Nearest to the neglected blades that
cling to him for comfort,
farthest from the vines of interlocking, shiny stones
that splay so near to the quick and well-trave
The RavenMisunderstoodThe Raven by Rasenryu
Not understood at all.
Won't even try to know me,
Don't even try to see me,
I will always be the Raven
In their white flock of Doves.
But I'd rather fly alone
Much rather be on my own
Too little of me, they think.
Thought I'd lay down
Conform to their ways.
Pushing me down every time I get up,
Taking advantage of my open wounds.
Doves become vultures
Tearing apart my healing scars.
But words will never hurt me no,
I'll spread my wings and fly
The dirt they walk is treated better
Than they will ever treat me.
Hating what they fear
Fearing what they don't understand
Loathed for no other reason,
Than to make them feel like
Their cheap, tacky insides
Are made of gold.
My plumage may be grungy
While theirs are spick and span.
At least inside I'm clean and happy
Doves' interiors are in need of dusting.
I am Different and alone, yes,
But not unaided like you think.
For the Ravens are coming,
And they're here to
A daydreamer. By all accounts I'm more introspective than ever was healthy or sane. Shy in person, prone to dropping things and becoming so submerged in music I'll walk into doors (or worse, start singing along), I tend to appear a little eccentric, or daft, or both.|
Round about the age of ten it was my sole purpose in life to become an artist of some kind. Times have changed but my love for art has since re-ignited, mutating itself into a serious hobby with an emphasis on traditional media, realism and animals. It's far from perfect yet, but I hope you can enjoy it all the same.