I pity the flower who is chosen
her craftsmanship wasted
beauty nor skill will save her
if a human hand picks

it is not lucky to be chosen

Watching
people talk
of black holes in the place of souls,
complain of aches and mistakes ,
sing of break-ups and make-ups,
cry for lost chances and missed glances,
as if it is a passion
I just sit
watching for signs of such talks
bubbling up from mine

Where do words go,
if  unspoken
do they crumble, stack or slither
explode a confetti of colours

if untended for
likely they sink
down to your toes
where they whisper to the soil
who sends them back as smoke
at the dawn of day