A wildflower painting,
Hung up on the wall,
No room to let it feel the sun,
Or grow up big and tall.

The colors still boasted brightly,
Of heavenly blue and pink,
But all that time on the wall gave the wildflower time to think.

About why it wasn't like the other flowers,
The ones outside in the heat,
The ones with chances to see the world and grace new people's feet.

About why the rain always hit the petals, so delicate and sweet,
Of the wildflowers outside that she never got to meet.

A wildflower painting hung up on the wall,
Turned out to not be such a wildflower at all.

I don't know where it went.

There was passion in places and there were ethereal faces that needed to be described in the most extravagant way to the people who didn't get a chance to see them.

There was New York City lights in my eyes and cigarette ashes that peppered the snow and blew away in the freezing wind.

I was in love with myself and nobody else,
I was looking for hope in old second hand books,
In dream decoding, in slight movements of bodies.

I don't know where it went.

There was time that never seemed to end,
And words that rushed in like the evening high tide,
Pressing its hands on my throat,
Forcing me until I'm gasping
Write it all! Write it all!

And it was there but where has it gone?
Somewhere among the stars where all our other dreams go when we wake?
I've been searching for months, maybe it's something I've done to myself by mistake.
I don't know where it went.

Missing the simplicity that summer gives us all, the warmth of the sun, and the way it makes us feel like we have more time,
The way we hold our heads up like sunflowers toward the skies and kiss the winds that blow away in the afternoon breeze.

But still understanding that change is needed for any growth, whether it be out in nature, or within ourselves,
The way the leaves need to transform into their crimson beauty and the crisp air gives them their wings to fly.

The way the things in our lives seem to come to a sudden end until we fall into the spring.
But we become more thankful for the flowers when we haven't seen them blossom for months,
We forget the ones that grew so tall last year.

These ones are much more beautiful.

I think of seawater
because of its briny tang,
because when,
by accident,
it trips into my mouth,
coats the inside of my cheeks
in a clear, chloride gloss.

I think of seawater
because of the way
it blooms along the shore,
dazzling white jewels
slinking up our toes,
our feet left with a glimmer,
slippery and clean.

I think of seawater
because your hair was soaked,
chestnut brown trickles
wriggling down your face
and I could smell the beach
in the pool of your neck,
fresh and transparent

at the crook of your lips.

And when at last she fell asleep,
For my sweetheart i kept vigil.
Synching my life breath,
With her rhythmic heart beats,
For her I wrote,this song.
But she couldn't listen, not even once,
Though only for her I weaved it.

Night had her rendezvous with dawn,
At the end of her painful journey with little light,
My love left without a word, never to return
To gift me that lingering,tantalizing, sweet pain,
That makes me real; keeps the lover in me alive.

My orphaned song of doomed love,
Lost all it's meaning at that moment.
Like a lover who lost way to the rendezvous,
It kept on knocking my door, ever after.
In the insistent beating of the sea waves' passion
I heard my lost song ringing once again.
On a night the melancholy moon,went hiding.
I sat alone soaked in pain and sang my song.
It made me melt, I deeply felt,nature too sang along,
In a frenzy, I never ever did witness before.
Then, the pale moon, on an apparel in transparent cloud,
Danced forgetting all her pain , that found expression in many ways.

I now realize,that song wasn't just mine,
It has a life of it's own,in tongues it spoke.
Day and night to lovers, jilted, all those lost by mistake,
Now, it has a life of it's own, independent from all
Anywhere it  would  go alone.

                             I wrote a song, for none in particular,
                             Soon did I realize, it speaks to all pain filled hearts,
                            Love created the wistful mood,
                            My time alone with her filled the words.
                             And one day everyone who heard
                             This song sung,  will leave, but the song won't.

                            The night air will be filled with it's mute waves of pain,
                           On it the distant stars will float.
                            The wind will hum it,the interstellar space,
                            Will echo, it's cadence aloud.
                            Neither the words would  fade
                           Nor my passion for her ever would die.