maybe the reason why
I can only write at night
is because that’s when we
were truly us
you first held me in your arms
and nervously kissed my lips
in the faint light of the stars
and now that you’re gone
the light of the stars
illuminates my will
to fill the hole you left
with anything I can
like words of my affection
for the boy that is no longer mine

In the dreary hour of the just-dawn,
your life painted in grim notes,
you are alone with all your Self;

The trees all asleep in grey tones,
lamps that gave light all night,
become pale packets of wastage;

A gust of wind pours in
carrying the songs of birds
singing to the unveiling skies.

A new morning comes rushing
on the waves of the mellow sea
from worlds beyond the horizon:

A day rises, when you drop all
the burdens you long carried
on your life-weary shoulders.

There was no hunger, no want, no desire
it was said that life is passion, you aren’t alive unless your insides burn with fire

Words were exchanged in full and without thoughts, second
Even when bonds were broken, within mere minutes would they mend

There comes a time when you realise that tomorrow isn’t much of mystery
don’t think things repeat? How about a lesson in history

Wise words have always passed on through the ages
wiser words yet, have perished with their sages

It is said that beauty is skin deep but ugly goes to the bone
funny, how none but them are drawn to the throne

Time was abundant and myths were told of change, spare
of our short, pathetic existence it seems we weren’t fully aware

Here we are atop a richly laden tree
one look towards the earth and you see skeletons, anything but free

The doors that used to be once open wide
now are walls with letterboxes, through which only bills and cheques now slide

Choice was an idea that truly held weight
not just a nuisance while picking a restaurant for a date

Nothing’s farther than the truth from itself
stories we shall write, into the depths of our own lies shall we delve.

For many years he'd traveled far,
a merchantman by trade.
His Mom passed on while he was gone-
she sleeps there in the glade.
Now he is home with tales to tell
of his trek on the Ocean Blue
but the one face he longed most to see
is not there to tell them to.
So he sat down on his duffel bag
beside her well tended grave,
and spoke his stories of the sea
when others might have prayed.
He left a white carnation there
upon her bed of clay.
It was well watered by the tears
he shed for her that day.
He said his last good byes to us
and turned back for the sea and the shore;
He'd search for peace on Neptune's deep
for Home wasn't home anymore.

it's like
early season, leaves out
on the low twined branches
with the thought of
    you like
so many cabbage moths
(small white, actually
butterflies)
                       (moths are better anyway)
flittering
fo

r one moment I
say
"you are beautiful" th

e
breeze carries your
white laced wings to my
soft cotton, the canvas I
spread over my
winter-long
in sec ur i ties, 'cause I'm
still like
when I was sev en teen and
believed and believe
you'd never
really
want
b
roken
little
sad
little

me

anyway. and the
air comes in
from the northeast and
you-
-starry eyed-
-dance away, like a
soft
spring laugh.

weather splinters in
      to fragments, repeating, like
          dense recollections of
what's already
    happened,
                 and
change dissolves indefinitely,
                      into all
streambeds, like        calcium
cycles              backwards out
               of my diet
these days and lately
         of course, being I, the mess,
am not
or ever
                     doing anything to fix this,
                                     and it's
               not like I don't need the
                sustenance, like
                                            all
warm               confusions
              you so graciously
                      endow upon my
                                    life.