under the horizon
above the naked earth;
i'm half drawn to the sky
and half to my skin;
along with the flowers
of december, wilting.

but, It's half a fine day.
and I'm half convinced.
the day, is yet to end.
and if after all, i am failed;
to be fully drawn to the sky,
ever i lay to cold, until it warms.

let's meet on spring,
when everything else of me is alive.
but when the season of autumn appears,
will you also come and arrive?
when everything else of me is wilting,
will you also come and arrive?

Tell me, does the night go through
you with its aching loneliness?

Do you think of me when
you see a wilting sunflower?

Do you see my face when
you hear the word longing?

Darling,
the words are now wilting,
give birth to the scent of roses.
The youth we fail to understand, expectations are increasingly wanted to always be fulfilled.
Bringing the flocks,
then grow and age.
If only things couldn't go away so easily,
maybe we've always been there.

A soul’s vine is encased with demise.
Towering stalks desiccate to bister mummies and
Aflush dreams of romance capsize into sour, obsidian soil.  

Exhausted leaves crumble when the sun goes down
And amber tears of stinging sap drizzle from hollow sepal’s
That once hugged tender safad petals in the raw night
Like a child clinging to their eham biar yadashte.

Eclipsed roots search for taskeen semblance.
Divest thorns flourish on their throne,
Devouring golden seeds of promise.

Tishna fruit wither into ember dust,
Particles brushing away in the restless wind
Until all that lays are flattened memories

Forgotten, forsaken, fanni.

Word Search
Machana Ruh (roo): A Wilting Soul
Safad: Pure milky white
Eham biar yadashte: That feeling of something from our childhood that gave us inanimate affection. Something we, still to this day, can not let go of because it carries all our intimate memories and emotions (Like a teddy bear or blanket).  
Taskeen (Tash-kean): The warm feeling of home
Fanni (Fa-nee): Mortal fragility
Tishna: When a person is dehydrated to the point of death

maybe it will never change

maybe we will still be flowers on the side of the road

still no place to call home

but still flowing in our veins is the wildness and adventure that

we’ve always known to be

we would be gleaming with vivd colors.

still trying to survive


the droughts
the rains
the storms
the heat
the wind
the bitter cold

when winter comes along, and someone doesn’t stop to pick you next and we will be left

to wilt

forgotten

something once so beautiful and fragile

now lifeless and limp.

r. Powell

Raindrops, water plops, let’s go see the ocean.
Let’s go skip a stone 14 and 11. Let’s go find a way so we could go to heaven.
Raindrops, falling on my face.
Raindrops mixing with my tears.
Tears falling into the water well.
Rose gardens, little girls picking them carefully.
But the rain is falling, and the girls are crying and the roses are wilting.
The wind is crying and I am crying and the well is crying and the roses are crying.
Raindrops, water plops, let’s go see the ocean.
Let’s go skip a stone, 14 and 11