The boy was bored in class, His mind a blank slate. “What to do next?” he Started to debate.
Deciding on graffiti, He pulled out a pencil And on the bare desk, He began to stencil.
A warrior formed under his hand; Instead of legs, he had a pole And an amputated arm- This sketch was not a whole.
The class came to an end, And the boy went home. But the soldier stayed, and Called himself Jerome.
Next morning came, And girls sat at Jerome’s table. They didn’t see him at first, And then they were able.
The girls gave him hair, And a screw for a hand. They made it so he was Standing on grassy land.
They too left him, Again he was lone. The sun had gone down It no longer shone.
Jerome was by himself All through the night. Then he was accompanied again, Come morning light.
A cleaning man came, With damp rag and mop. Prepared to clean Every tabletop.
With his cart of dusty water And his bottle of cleaning stuff, The tired man wiped Jerome’s life away Not thoroughly, but enough.
Jerome died a brave soldier, His head and torso a puddle. The pole of his legs Had become a muddle.
When the boy came back To see the product of a bore, He saw that his beloved Jerome was no more.
The Anticipation of Winter
My face pressed against The cool glass of the window, I breathe, And my steaming breath blurs Trees with bare branches No green grass The world is dead With me living in this Barren wasteland. Waiting, watching For a sign of life. Other than me and my Silent, sleeping Dreaming dog. Wrapped in A soft, warm blanket, My hearth roaring With blazing hot fire, I anticipate The first snowflake. Suddenly what I see Outside of my Frosty window Opens my heart To feel better love. Down falls the first Snowy white flake of winter. Twirling and twisting Like a ballerina. Followed by many more just like it. Followed by my satisfaction.
She would trot ahead of us, Her head held high. She’d yell at the children And make them cry.
When we got home, She’d go straight to her drink, And vomit into The kitchen sink.
Someone came, And knocked on the door; She yelled and yelled, At the poor
Mail man who ran, Dazed and afraid, Then she went to her bed, And proudly laid.
Coco was the worst dog Who could be; A literal bitch, Who hated me.
Daedalus, Clever creator of the labyrinth in which the minotaur lay, Gave the gift of Flight, or so he Thought. Prisoned, lying In the dark, He and his Son, Icarus, Collecting feathers To escape on wings. Wax held the wings together, And Icarus, young Icarus, Heeded not to his father. Up he flew, closer to the sun. His winged glory melted, and So Daedalus watched in vain, While his son died.