The Flower

In my hand I hold, morose, a flower slowly withered,

Fighting through a brutal storm, a darkened sullen blizzard

Waiting, dying, acceding to the clasp of reaper's touch,

Strangled without hope to breathe through the hands of salted clutch.

Drained of all vitality, the nighttime sky caressing,

the corpse, stigma of my pride, lies weak while decompressing,

Rooted under moonlit swamps, it cried tears of confession,

Petals drift down to the mud, a beautiful succession,

Thorns, they prick and puncture to release their recollections,
Through skin and heart alike they pain with harsh imperfections,
Each jagged piece digging, bleeding, midnight fast approaching,
Deep beneath a layer of dirt, waiting, dawn encroaching,

A grave with tombstone missing greets my flushed and hazel eyes,
Another lovers evening ends with elegant demise.

Norwegian Sun

You are my Norwegian sun,
in the summer your warmth is
powerful and omnipresent,
caressing my skin lightly,
always vigilant of fears
while whispering my name.

You are courageous,
flirtatious and irresistible,
never releasing my body
from your arms and running
my hair through your fingers,
burning my sensibility.

And in the winter you are barren,
cold as the moon who replaces you,
aloof, separated by millions of miles,
clouds our impasse
and the snow drifts lazily down
to my Norwegian night.