a flower
u n b l o s s o m e d
a lover
f o r g o t t e n
a mirror
s h a t t e r e d
a heart
b a t t e r e d
as are these, beauty
b l u n t e d
as I am, one
u n w a n t e d

fear,
but a string

the strand drawn from the
depths of our souls,
composed of insecurity,
fragility,
anguish

it was the string from which I hung

One night the moon whispered her secrets
into the breeze,
who carried it in a song
to blow though the trees

There it settled
with it's consonants and vowels
Then away flew the moon's words
on the wings of an owl

Her voice traveled a great distance
till the little bird reached light
There through the window
was a writer in the night

So out perched the bird,
words whoo-ed into the silence
to be picked up by a candle's flame,
to reach the writer's iris

It was then in the dark
that the ink flowed onto a page
It was then in the dark
that the author's mind blazed

Times goes by
and we read these words, finely tuned
from the writer in the dark,
the messenger for the moon

Waking up before dawn
The air seems to be made of
g l a s s
Satin curtains hang from a window,
Wind seeping in through the
c r a c k
Memories stick like honey
Resonating in my head, a
d r e a m
Wondering what might've become of those things,
As I lay there half
a s l e e p
But the world seemed so different
Dull things were changed to
a r t
So I concluded, it is quite an odd feeling
To wake up with a stranger's
h e a r t

ineffable sorrow
in the grey skies
staring at love letters
stained with cherry wine

on the window sill
lies the white rose
a love not to last
on the floor, her clothes

clandestine tears
of a hopeless romantic
her naive heart
so easily enchanted

she's a liability
that none can take on
limerence fades
the light in his eyes, gone

failed expectations;
for she lives in a dream
holding on
to promises of serendipity

addicted to euphoria
to dilute her pain
watching tears fall
down the shower drain

nothing left now
so another drink she pours
then into a cab
only to be broken once more