The Flowers Death


Edges curling in, weathered

A depressed muted brown bleeds where vibrancy once thrived

The color of apathy and lost purpose

Quietly spoken, perhaps purpose and possibility were never found

Not all flowers die beautifully

Spirit can fold in, cold and fetal without a sound

Air becomes gnarled, sharply chewing decay in hope

The flowers death

A silent and vulgar unbecoming

Mirroring a life I know

~Alisa Hutton



The Circus


A line dangerously high and fine

Invisible tight ropes between subtle realities

Be equally comfortable with great heights and long falls

Learn your feet well, how and when they need to walk

To and from are different directions

Choices and options

One, founded in the risk of the possibility to be hurt for the right reasons

The other, assured risk of the possibility to be hurt for the wrong reasons

One simply is love

The other merely seeking to feel loved

Different shows performing in the same circus

Walking tight ropes

~Alisa Hutton