By Ben Pickard and Maple Tree
A small acorn, from my nature soul...

I write of peace in darkness
making friends with demons...

By the river a tide is forming,
bathing souls of a wild flower...

The mortician bowed his face in a grin
for he never knew the power of magic...

I often fantasize about
Mary Jane's perfume...

Blackened hearts filter roses
with scattered thorns, tongues...

Pages upon pages of spattered ink
my heart hears nothing, yet feels...

She bathed in leaves of a fallen Maple tree
as the sun began to bid day, adiu...

Twisted markings etch the bindings
of a leather notebook, laced in red...

A woman's heart holds a deep ocean
filled with whisper tears from yesterday...

Sadistic child play
taunting the shy, innocent...

There are certain poems
that need to be written...