Here's a poem I just finished.

Every shadow is of the sun.
A buzzard, spinning in the eddies,
Haunts a birdlike piece of ground,
Where dandelions shake.
A mile away, on the world’s skirts,
Nightmare machines quiver unseen,
And the earth is scarred by the shapes of men.

Every shadow is of the sun.
The lighthouse-keeper’s yellow dog
Barks at his reflection,
And the spectres in the fog.
They speak Morse code, and come
To beg his pardon, and to ask
Why the ghost-moon wastes his wax.

Every shadow is of the sun.
The violent bloom that burns my mask
Rips my shape from end to end
And paints my likeness on the grass.
That steals the essence of trees
Light-locks the staring homes
And paints a pattern on the world’s bones.
Last edited by OKSauce at Feb 12, 2013,