Debris

I once was whole when there was life in the street
And love built in me a home,
Where the hearth-warmth once was cheery-sweet
And on the dressing-table lay a comb.
There once were pictures on these walls
And laughter echoed through the doors
I miss the footsteps down the halls
The quilts and rugs upon the floors.
For darkness fell and all these things
Were taken, in a flash:
Screaming sirens, wailing shells—
Innocence's ugly knell
Have left me here in ash and dust
Wooden frames broken, nails left to rust.

The walls that once held what was whole and bright,
The warm lamplight and kisses goodnight
Stand no more—
In crack and crevice, the wild flower blooms
Where once I nestled life in rooms.

{Claire}

Procrastination

She is a thief with many guises, an artist of considerable talent. She comes, sometimes, with a gentle caress, like the lightest of breezes, a brush of rose-scented hair across your cheek, to draw you slowly away into her empty embrace. She comes, sometimes, with promises of treats and assorted goodies, a trail of hollow breadcrumbs that leads you deeper into the darkened woods where she lairs. She comes, sometimes, more forcefully, tugging at your sleeve, your trousers, your ears, your heart, demanding your attention, your adoration, your supplication. She is a thief with many guises - she is an experienced and familiar lover, an enticing new prospect, an adorable child with an infectious personality. She comes each time, intently, insistent, and inexplicably you follow her, as you lead her down to where you keep your most sacred treasures. And as her arms wrap ever tigher around you, her fingers reach down into your soul, and draw out the most precious hours of your life. And as the sand slowly falls out from your hourglass in cascades of gold, she bathes in it, delightedly, coldly and beautifully, immortal.

- Adrian