The withering of
flowers only initiate
their drift to incredible
refinement.
Their scents remain
in the ethers, these
stars of spring...that
forever inspire winter.
To withdraw from
its white meditation,
as unblent color.

At the peak of
presence imposed,
wet with rise and
fall...you eulogized
something that could
not escape us.
We grounded the sky,
we skied the ground...
the circumvented posts
of our eyes ran as blind milk.

When senses spent
themselves, a prudent
thought placed a mint
upon a hotel pillow.
Our postal pearl...
gone modern.

The tongue is a
solitary dancer,
whose tip weighs
words that may
never make it out.
These are the words
when truly weighted...
free the solitary dancer.
To the rythm of poetry,
thus made indistinguishable.

Pacing with the adamant
intensity of a madman...
at the reoccurring edge of
revelation.
A soundproof roar, guttural
to the foundation of the
earth, passes for silence.
It goes something like our
world, whose lips tremble
while whistling...as to imply
all is well.
To herald the eyes and ears of
revelations that clear the light
out of dark, the dark out of light...
to ****** balance.

Faintly January,
enthroned by tradition...
yet time is too full with singular
collapse.
Older than The New
Year, younger than last year.
Minute detail pulsing
over the lip of The Cup.
Collision of cause and effect...
karma's confession.
Thought, out-thought...
just the crushing crux
of diamonds, being caught
by the right light...
faintly January.

Once  seen, there's
a  depth  of  beauty
one  never  recovers
­from... akin  to
the   swoon  of  an
aeonian  sun.
Whereupon  death  has­
no  name  to  take
in  vain.