I am that like a dew drop
upon a withering rose,
I’m a bit late to hydrate
its weathered bad,
for death already stole
its last breath.

The perfumed lives of
rose’s, is a lingering
ghost that lives like smoke.

©️ 2021 By Amanda Shelton

I saw your eyes today...
Eyes that inspire poetry...
And I want to write poetry for them...
But I  can't...
I seem to be under the spell of their beauty...
I am mesmerized...
It's as if all poetry in the universe can't describe them...
For they're magic...
A true paradox...

The yell "It's mine!" was the first call to war!

In the mirror I see,
An old vase, full of white chrysanthemums,
Under a sea of emotions,
I imagine the vase in vast hues of blue, red, purple, green.
It changes and morphs into my creation,
but the chrysanthemums persist,
for a vase is a vase, change is change,
but what is inside stays the s̶a̶m̶e̶.

When did I detach myself from the current of reality,
eternally fused to the nothingness that awaits us?
To become a slave of dreams and machinations.

When did I become another heartbeat,
longing for fantasies of love,
only to find the anguish that comes from human desire.
Knowing that we are powerless to our fascinations.

How many days go by, as we long to be remembered?
For art, for name, for doing, for living
only to reach the same end of obscurity.

They call me a deconstructionist, a detester of life.
But are we not worthlessly tied to this current of life?
We are born with no concepts, no meaning, an echo of what is to come.
& that same echo escapes us in the end.

What to do when you are tired,retired......