Clockwork Angels

Clockwork angels
Heads of glass
Wings of brass
Hang flightless in the air
Hourglass is turned
They shift in measured stride
Blinking slumber from their workings
Their bodies stuffed with gears
That wound fill their bodies with life
And now they dance

The Storm

A raging storm beneath the surface lays.
All tangled in its dreary mess,
Grasping at the shore.
Burrowing in as a worm does an apple.
Screeching and howling at the cliffs.
Cutting deep gashes in its face.
Bombarding cliffs with hash attacks.
Careening at the shore with malicious intent.
Gauging out its mark without remorse.
Flinging its self upon the shore 
With a child’s raging temper.
Griping the shore, dragging its self upon the rocks.
Moving with a crash that could shatter glass.
Momentous flowing force hurtling towards the shore.
Then Nothing

Folly

Wings alight with silver trails
Oh what heights they do prevail
Souring upon the sky
Oh what foolish creatures
Are they
For their heads are but glass
Their wings of paper
Do they think themselves,
Angels of heavens grace?