In absence,
A lost key is only
                   A catastrophe,
When the door is locked from the outside,
And everything important is within.

That is when we are reaquianted,
With an old concept.
One that can occur to anyone-
                              If they have the mind to lose the key.
It is the called,
                  The snowball effect.
When we are to leave without our prizes inside.
And all that is taken for granted,
Is kept beyond the width of a door.

But most of all, there is one,
Who will again take for granted his prizes,
And lose them along the way.

And although, these are not materialistic prizes,
They are prizes of greater worth than any
Kept behind that blasted door.

When these, his friends,
Give sacrifice, and he cares not to thank them.
When these, gifts to an undeserving man,
Are asked yet again, and these favors are not repaid.

This, is the snowball effect.
Something that can occur to anyone,
                    -if they have the mind to take their prizes for granted
Or ever have the idiocy to lose the key that unlocks them.
For locked out he may be,
This man has lucked out.

in the rain-
darkness,     the sunset
being sheathed i sit and
think of you

the holy
city which is your face
your little cheeks the streets
of smiles

your eyes half-
thrush
half-angel and your drowsy
lips where float flowers of kiss

and
there is the sweet shy pirouette
your hair
and then

your dancesong
soul.     rarely-beloved
a single star is
uttered,and i

think
       of you

The rain is racing down the window behind me
With a cup of warm tea sitting on the side.
I am propelled through the pages of the book that I hold in my clenched hands.
I am leading a charge into battle.
Storming the infallible towers that I ensure will fall by first light.
I am embracing my sweetheart
After a separation that seemed like a lifetime.
I am slaying the dragon
And saving the enslaved kingdom.
I am holding my love's hand
As we run through the night to places unknown.
The rain is beating against the window,
Yet I am warm living the lives of hundreds of others.

The tears on my keyboard
bespeak the pain
that is in my heart

I can't write research papers
about books
I can only read books

and besides
poems.
are the best kind of writing

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

She dances on the rooftops.
The tar and cobblestone: her truest stage.
She'll never fail her public; the stars gaze with adoration,
And dance for them until the curtain calls.

She dances on the rooftops,
The ledges drawing near.
The storm clouds utter their applause.
The crescendo drives her on.

She dances on the rooftops,
Wielding a pistol and her pills.
The sky demands she take a bow,
Before the pavement-curtain falls.