The ...

 

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Dedicated to the simple things within the life of myself, and others. 

 

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The Moon

The moon glistened in the night, grasping to the darkness which beckoned over the city; shadows clutched to the edges of the sphere as the man with a face protected figures below. On Winter mornings, you often see him there: frozen to the canvas. He seemed alive, as he drifted between clouds vanishing in the mist of ice. Changing his mind when seasons stir, he abandoned us like children, forgotten in homes without the light from our father to guide us. We wait for the source to emit the signals of nightlife, for owls to squawk as they make their route home, known to the strangers on the ground as the smile from the man above. When the direction of the weather alters and days become a challenge for time, the man leaves us once more and we are amongst the few admiring the sun, as it manifests joy from the Summer days. Summer nights however, are often different. Our man does not show on early evenings, clashing with the suns appearance. He arrives no later than ten o’clock. When all the struggles from our lives are put to an end. We climb amongst the covers, peaking our noses above our chests, exhaling breaths as we ponder, why does the man above, reflect the happiness from our lives when he is not happy? He leaves once more when the morning has called. The nights are drowned out when the sun’s bulb burns. Burnt. Diminished in time. But never forgotten; the man with a face. 

 
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The Leaves

They crunch; gnawing at my toes. Sniffing the musty scent from my creamy cashmere boots. I’m shuffling through the mosaic of colours. Peculiar shades are masked by their crooked shape, with a jagged outline accentuating their vicious claws. They have a name so simple. Too sweet for their ruthless appearance. Cracking; I envision broken bones beneath my weight. Their noise makes me shudder. Lounging on the concrete grave, they briskly move.  Their crisp frame soars through the mist, synchronising with the bitter breeze from the howling wind. Subdue by mother nature with no obligations. Thriving a fever from the sweltering Summer days: they sprout on protracted skeleton arms, constructing a home against the tower. Only to flee leaving the trees exposed. Naked. The trees become lonely, when mother nature strips them from who they love. Sunlight covers their faces, as they mourn the death of their lovers. Their lovers. The leaves who calmly fall, quietly forging a bundle over the soil. Stacking themselves like books on a slumped shelf, they linger for their lovers to come back for them. They wont. Mother nature is not cupid, neither is she a saint. She accepts the brutal truth: trees and leaves have emotions and sometimes they feel weak. What makes them stronger, is the abandonment from the one they love. They keep striving to find them. To feel their grip against their skin. Waiting. Soon, the wintry nights will pass and the Summer season will flourish. The trees will greet a new lover, an adolescent leaf constructing a life against their tenacious physique. Devotion will bloom between them. Once they begin to blossom, the trees will find themselves yearning for their discovered love. A Leaf. Mother natures marvellous creation of a woman. A woman, who will always stay attached to the mans arm, forever in his heart when she leaves.

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The Mistake

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The Library

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The Early Riser

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