Fuzzy Socks and Wrap-Around scarves

Breathe in the crisp air,
August quickly fades away,
Welcoming cold days.

Numb fingers wrapped,
Around coffee scented mugs,
Many books to read.

Warm, knitted jumpers,
Fuzzy socks, wrap-around scarves,
Goodbye summer days.

Him

He had the stars on his back,

One thousand suns, yet he still saw himself as ordinary.

Eyes shielded by lowered lids, masking bright blue brilliance, buried treasure in the sunlit sea,

lips parted by thought, dribbling uniquely crafted prose, pondering the once dull air,

and hands held high with hope, carrying a beacon of imagination for those who claim no cares.

A mind moulded with memories and mannerisms of a mindless child,

Welcome to weapons of wonderment, standing fearless before long anticipating audiences,

Laughing playfully as they linger upon every hand picked word.

Baring his soul before the masses, each admirer taking home stories of a man who was born to write,

Four-twenty and forever a seasick soul fishing for poems under a starburst sky.