Love is a gangrenous limb,
Mangled and raw,
Never healing, love is a metonym,
Fatal ifn't offed     with a hacksaw.

No one ached when I died
On a dusty August morning in the swelter of the sun
They buried me in blue jeans and my coffin had a crack
A chip along the edges matched the blood along the tracks

Family preceded me; there was no one left to cry
But a single solemn woman, hidden in the back
Shed a single shiny tear; and only one to be exact

No waterfalls or bowing heads, no crowd to see me go
No burning candle vigils and no midnight serenade
I marched the gates of life and death, alone but unafraid

No one ached when I died
No questions or suspicions from the folks around the town
There were no weeping faces or a grand old death parade
Just a digger and a preacher; lowered slowly in the grave

If you consider a woman less pure because you've touched her,
Maybe you should take a look at your hands.

I am touch.
A rinse of saffron rice.
parable on a summers day.
A green leaf waiting to wilt.

I am journey.
From the depths of the oceans.
To rim of the bay.

The gentle blow of the wind,
that picks up the aroma of your winter wine.