Subject Choice

I wonder sometimes,

About these poems I write,

I worry who reads them,

And that someone just might,

Come to realise,

They’re the subject of one,

That thought’s a bit scary,

And not at all fun,

For this reason I rarely,

Write about friends,

And instead just write poems,

With quite messy ends.

Subject Choice

Spectrum of the Sun

An amber landscape expends across the rambling hills,
The Barren trees stretch desperately towards the sky,
As the higher they climb,
The more they are engulfed by the overwhelming beauty.

The dying embers of the sun race to cover the land in honeyed hues,
Extending across the landscape in rays,
Slowly melting toward the horizon.

All colours become the spectrum of the sun.

Spectrum of the Sun