Pumpkin

Thick auburn hair
Dusted with snowflakes
I lie my forarms on her shoulders
And she leans forward to my lips

In the shadow of the bare oak tree
I smell the cinnamon on her neck
As it wafts through the loose knit scarf
Wrapped tight, like my arms around her

With a creak we hear the branches list
And pile heavy snow on our heads
As we both find our ease
I smile comes to her face
As she sees mine still cold and indignant

She kisses my cheek so I can grin
Orange hair topped with whipped cream
Her love straight from the oven
Like warm pumpkin pie
-Galwyn

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Faded

Each night dull and faded
Like favorite clothes
Washed threadbare
And as the mystic moon rises
It too starts to lose its shine
As they fade away
Not to black, white, or even grey
I’m left alone with my thoughts
Toys scattered amist the room
Too small for the hands of a man
Yet too beloved in their nostalgia
To throw away
Is there a cure for the dimming night?
There might be
While she might not be beside me
She’s still there
Omnipresent
Her touch makes the contrast build
And thoughts of her shine vivid
To paint the dull walls
With dancing shadows
The cure for the dimming night
Is with words of love to another
Or the will for them
Being the last thing on your mind
Like the sweetest drop of nectar
Dripped from a jar
Filled in the sun
And consumed by the moon
-Galwyn

Migraine 

Her soft hair cascades across my jeans
Face straining, jaw tight
Brow crumbling
Like an unfaithful love song

Her head rests on my waist
Off-kilter, yet comfortable
Eyes closed
While I hum, sincerity on my lips

Her temples pulse like a church at dawn
Clanging, yet musical
I can’t mute them
For her mind tolls with every moment
-Galwyn

Mold

It all seems smooth and fine
Until the day you turn your eyes
And see mounds of black and green
Sprouting where it once was clean

All at once and with no warning
Those fuzzy globules grow
The stench of rot, rot and decay
Naught left to do but throw away

Infant grass hills, with stony teeth
Laid out in their jagged rows
Biting earth oh so nearby
Yet at these mounds they stop just shy
Foreign flora wait inside
Dried up vases left beside
Those stony teeth with chiseled sides
The mold of life – to live and die
-Galwyn