“Send him in,” a priest in a gold-trimmed white tunic confirmed as he slid on his ornate hat with a yellow plume. A gold-plated iron staff rested in his left hand while his right adjusted the headwear.

Moments later, an older man in simple black robes was escorted into the throne room of the gothic cathedral. Sitting upon the throne, the priest lifted his head high and puffed out his chest—using ...

Whisps of snow dance in the frigid breeze

As the wind whips across the open space

Keeping the water cold enough to freeze

But the suns smile is like a warm embrace

With two layers, a hat and no winter coat

Everyone rushes to lace up on the shore

Stepping on water as if they could float

Gliding forward as if with wings they soar

A table is loaded with snacks upon the ice

While the shovel and plo...

Rotting flowers can still smell sweet…

Rot spreads and is impossible to treat

Is a sweet smell really worth the price

When the rot leads to your sacrifice?...

People are quick to say I saved the day

When things start going their way

Torches and pitchforks just a day before

Funny they aren’t acknowledged anymore

In a compromise everyone gets a prize

But the mediator is just called wise

Symbols of peace can often end war

Does anyone care what I want anymore?

What is gained by being a symbol of peace?

Other than being caged like your golden geese?...

Her words were sharp like a knife

Intentionally causing others strife

My anger was sharper than my wit

Causing me to lash out and hit

So we both sat on an opposite side

As our tired mother started to chide

“You two can keep fighting all the time”

“Or can be each others partner in crime”

She went on to explain

And it never left my brain

One thing my mother said

That finally got to my head

“No ...

Every rose is beautiful/

Or that’s what people say/

But a rose doesn’t bloom in a day/

Born a seed/

Beneath a scorching sun/

Life didn’t start with joy and fun/

Even as it grows/

Grass hoppers lick their lips/

And there is no means to avoid children’s grips/

A rose grows thorns first/

Because the world is cruel and brutal/

Without thorns even beauty is but futile/

It’s hard to enjoy/

Something...