My eyes are slits
As my reflection is not familiar
— with her
But she has my attention
She is smoking from her ears
Her voice trembles
Her lips are thin lines in dry chaps
And her tone is well—
Seriously monotone

Like nails on a chalky stone
It sent violent shivers of discomfort
Up my spine
down again
This body
A zombie

I snapped back to my face of wasted time
She is an escapee from her own death
Her tone crosses me
Like a knife on my bone
In solemn droning
To the girl with bloodshot eyes
Though not from tears
But from bursting inside.

The woods felt peaceful
Alas, they hung in a rhythm
we breathe
The trees swayed high above
Mighty silhouettes
calling down to me.

My eyes traced
the streaks in the sky
From eastern pink
to the blaze in the west
Earth was blushing rosy cotton
Fierce in her burnt sienna dress.

Earth was me
swirling with the elements
Wind was me
finding the love in the twist
Wells were the arms of melancholy
Fire was the heat
erupting from my chest.

I think love is what we need in the world.
We needed it so badly we created it. Then we fought over it. And we corrupted it. It even became a disease. Until we found it had a medicinal effect. It could heal.

Love seeps into the ground where we bury it. The decay leaves traces of it. So is love also in death? Love is powerful indeed.

If love can find its way in life and death, it must not be mortal like us. Perhaps we can call it Divine. It must be what we see when we look up to the sky.

That’s why we describe it in so many ways. It flows like the blood in our veins. And when we no longer have the strength in our heart, it becomes the soul of our own.

Love was a new moon
Darkness snarling blindly
Eternal life curse

Salivating tongues
Juggling one tasty rock
A sweet distraction

I let the shape of your face
  Fade from the clouds
  I let the musical sounds
Heavy with pain play

   Now soft as a feather
As birds of my heart sang
I let the break of a new life
     Let you go

Her branches hung low
to the ground
They brushed the dirt
that they sat upon
How beautiful is pain
when it grows
It has a way to hang
those gentle woes.

See that tree all alone
yet so full?

Her shadows weep
in the bristles of doom
Then the sun comes to play
in the cold bushy monsoon.
As gusty sighs sway her eyes
to greet the galloping moon.