Mist, dew and rose.

Three songbirds rose
Their wings quiet—
Weaved a riot—

Breath, then bone and blood
Whispered to noise from, for mud
Let them grieve, let them—
Yet another young note
On the hard-baked stem.
Restrained do not

Cry
Nor bleed or melt a flushed blue
Pearly melodies of sky
Do no do, do not do

Ask of liberty—
Pretty, petty property.
What of birds?
Clumsy drip-dropping words

Only a breath weeps
Only bone shakes
All ballads, the blood keeps
Only the carcass wakes

And silent, silent goes
Into the blooming blue goes—

With a suitcase in the hall
the lady is leaving, Sunday
mingled in her uncertainty
is a goodbye to all those morrows,
with lush eyeliner,
she said she was a stranger to love
and in the morning,
she returned to her child within,
and in her sad longing
the rain relented.

When was the last time we had a sweet conversation?

lying on the bed,
reminiscing our first kiss
awkward but the best.
4/11/2021

The sorrow we display reflects the sympathy we have, and reflects the shattered vision of a world we will yet have. Our despair is the inverted image of our nobility.

I cannot compose brilliant poems, sonnets, or verses,

and I cannot speak to you in Latin or Greek;

I cannot move you with any language made up by man.

Love is the only only language I could touch you with

If you only knew how much I could love you.

If you knew I love you;

If I were brave enough to tell you at all.