~Shatter me, Humpty! Into Faberge~
Paint — the cracks, laden:
Urushi, gold leaf, lame.

~Drape me, King! In novel robes~
Hide thine – from naked eye
Of unsightly misanthropes.

~Devour me, Men! Unbecoming~
Break thy yolk and stir it, runny –
Scramble over my gutting!

Time has a fickle memory
Such oft it o’erlaps
Deja vu, of the lyric —
That Time itself — entraps.

Devours the page — engorged
‘Til you are paper-forged
Drowned — heady, in pretty epithet,
Losing Time you can’t afford.

You can’t unbind the shackles
For Time has lost the key –
Better to live a fleeting bliss
Than a prolonged misery.

You spend more time cradling your shell, lately
Coveting not the flesh of just any man
But the warmth of his skin - only
Tempering your own - rosy
Dulling the mind - *****
And curing the heart’s lonely:

~Ahh… Hare!
Suppose this must be what it means to burn —
Slowly.~

What if I were to conjure a storm
And be met with a fleeting rain?
What if I let a small sob escape
And spilt forth a rogue hurricane?
What if I precipitated a thunder
And heard word of a sweet refrain?
What if Cumuli resolved with Nimbus
To be lighter once again?

An arrangement set
A red pin, dropped
A kettle simmering
A tea, half-drunk
An afternoon
A transient fleeting
An exchange of breath
A running stream
A tremolo, twinkling
A couple of twinks
An amalgam of flesh
A bundle of kindling
An exhalation
A series of gasps
A needle on a string
A basting stitch
An idle thumbtack
A log for one to cling
An obligation
A set of things
A need for one to bring
A resemblance alike
An Angel in heat
A modern-day Nephilim.

Another
Fills the cup
~To sorrow smother!~

Another
Flies the coop
~To sully another!~

If thee were to drink
Would this malady cease?
And if thee were to leave
~Would you return to me,
Please?~

O, how long shall this anguish last
I thought it o’erturned?
But then I felt it – turn again
The Wheel that yearns, and yearns
That tugs the Heart; moves the cart
Toward slight and lucky mound
That slights the fortunate – Off course
With trite misfortune abound.

What are the chances? I count
My eggs, and chance a guess
Make sense of those already hatched
But what to make of the rest?
Does the fledgling Hen – No Hatchling abreast –
Mourn amongst the coop
Or does it lay all anguish to rest
In the nest its Chicks would stoop?