Old run river, wide, but shallow.
Over-runs it’s wending banks,
Into fallow fields soon green
Futures, as it flows and sinks,
And drains and draws away. Left the
Men, who dig only as deep as their pockets,
They watch houses wash away when floods
Roll across, putting out families
And fires, these, the same liars as
The last liars.

© SXT 2022

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The frigid Florida air soaks
Humidity, deep into icy drafts.
Cooler than the North I recall, more
Acute, this mirage of blustery snow. It lingers there
Awhile, as I shift uncomfortably in my chair, waning
While these short Southern winters wax.
As for me, I will stay under the huddled covers heat,
Remembering summer, due back shortly next week.

© SXT 2022

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I placed a leaf inside a book,
And blessed it with a forlorn look,
And wondered which wet wind it rode,
To make it’s way so far alone.
For there is here no tree to host,
The crimsoned, dim brown peaks it boasts,
Now warm forever on my shelves,
A mystery, this sprig, lost of elves…

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Means and mind make the infinity.
Should a house cat see the world,
It will soon think that it goes on,
Forever. Man knows better, and
Yet each of us live as that cat, wildly
Walking through the windy years,
Heedless of the limits of time. Even
Though we know better
Than our pets, We join them,
Chasing after
Sunset.

© SXT 2022

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Some old friends long gone,
Return, ignite and burn slow,
Back to flickered rhythm.
The same wick accepts,
The former fire, being familiar,
And brightly fills a remembered
Space with warmth and light,
From dusk of day and long,
Long past the fall of night.

© SXT 2022

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Do you recall,
The days in greened window screens,
And the dirt built up around
Metal, grasping against glass.
Turning the crank for breeze, wincing
Through the peal of unoiled levers.
Outside, late leaves are falling, many still green
Procrastinating plants. You sat still
On the plastic chair covers, perhaps
Purchased proudly in old days,
Now far and passed, like
The stagnant fall wind, that
Filled the porch awhile,
Well and cool.

© SXT 2022

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In Samhain sunset, as
Our own autumns, closer creep.
Death is not heavy, He is strangely
Light and limber. Slow and airy,
He dance-haunts the trees, ghosts the cold
Gales and traces time and passes past
Each of us, silent. Reserved. Glancing blows
All around before He would stay, instead a shiver, a
Soft knock unheeded, a dark tinge on dusk,
As pumpkins, and their cut faces, dimly light
Another turn of the Hallow’s eve.

© SXT 2022

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I try to recall,
The details of a dream, but,
Beyond the walls of sleep,
Day guardians prevent bright-eyes
From approach. None may peer closely
Into that murky hold, where
Impressions flex and flow,
Away and toward, backward
And forward in torpid mist.
No, to enter, one must pay the toll:
Two eyelids, tired and shut.
But since I am awake, day beckons,
And I must shuffle on,
Forgetting.

© SXT 2022

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I never did get it, though
You laughed, and I suppose
I did find it amusing. An
Anarchist’s chuckle, only available
To adolescents who had thus far
Shunned causality. The smoke
Choked a low sun on the hot day,
Though it was hotter still for the
Firefighters, dousing the blaze.
We sat and smoked cigarettes, seems
Something was always burning,
In those long, gone days.
We listened to sirens,
And laughed in the haze.

© SXT 2022

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Stephen XT

Stephen XT

57 Followers

I write stuff when something begs to me to write. The goal is to write ten-thousand things before I die. I tend to be morbid, reflective and personal.