She was a rare bird.
In her hips, she carried music and strange fevers.
She was special, drinking us in with her water-like eyes.
One day, she stripped the polish from her nails,
cut locks of her hair,
opened a book of poetry and said a prayer
(I know that, in that moment, her roots were still bound to the world)
and then, feeling kissed, she fired a shot of pollen at her temple.

Life is a roller-coaster
   up and down
   down and up
   in its every round

   there's no still=point
   nor equilibrium--only
    flux and oscillation
    the certainty of uncertainty

    a Stoic I am to the utmost degree
    and in indifference I live
    whatever the outcome
    it causes me no grief

I lost my moon
in the darkness of
your starry night
i sung with some
night birds,
and i lost in milky way
of your eyes.

There's too much self-assertion

in social media as though the proponents

are coercing readers to agree with them

so that they would feel they are held in appreciation