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A Twilight YearPick it apart, then altogether,all ambience: the mood, the weather,each window pane’s glistening crystal;jolly sage, the breezy whistle,mist of rain, a hush of mice,the willow’s vine wrapped ‘round it thrice.Antique cottage: wood and woolsoft-bound rain-barrel half-full,perched amid the forest clearingjust beyond an old tree’s hearing.High above, an open nestempty in its time of rest:fuzz and feathers yet remainamong the twigs humble and plain.Meadow murmurs its contentment,reminiscing on each remnant:soft as fog its melody,and quiet as the hollow tree—I have perhaps visited heredreaming of a twilight year.

The JokerI used to be an aristocrat.Everywhere I stepped was crap-unless I owned it.Everyone I kissed was crap-unless I stole it.And I was my own best friend.I used to be the baddest ass in town.Even tigers ran away from my block-the second they heard my laughter.Until one day,sa bigger cat rolled into the hoodand smacked me.So I spat and I spitand I hooted and hollereduntil I realized what I was fighting-was me.I was my greatest weakness,yet I wasn’t the only one laughing.

The Dance of SkullsBY MARIA MANCINIAs we melt into the night,we melt out of sight,to win this fight,forget fright.This face is turning to dust,while I hang on for dear life.The world flowers around me-in Love.Dance we must!It’s getting late dear,and your skull is showing.