There is a reason water is clear, and blood is crimson,                                                                                                             for it would be far too painful to try and see the truth in your veins.

There are so many lilies in my brain,
spreading the petals of the pain,
full of the fragrance of regret,
they are too hard to forget,
thrive and flow fast through the veins.

I'm kind of glad
that the world is dying today.
I've longed to beseech the ruins lost,
under the abyss ink of my gentle fingerprints, as I
dance among the sage green moss
and meadows shine, the dew drops glint.
I am of doom, I am of loss.
I'd love to see the world forsaken.
Only now, only today has the universe marked me as its prey
and I bent towards the ending day.

© fey (12/11/24)

Wondrous porcelain above,
the pines have felt your touch beyond
and in the woods we sing –
of ephemeral, heavy spring.

© fey (09/11/24)

the best time to realize
when
what
causes one to experience
the meaning of to be
deathly afraid
is
exactly
when
you are not


joy purifying
enfolds you, envelops, indeed,
you
are subsumed, a sense of being
secondary
to the unusual flooding of the
dry riverbed in your head that’s
been dry since you can’t remember

when

when you understand
that one cannot truly
write only love poetry
to precise excess
unless
admittedly you love
to excess,
otherwise
you are incapable of making
good
love poems

when

you are not
within that
rare off the beaten yes trackless meniscus curve,
in
country
of first love
  of
only
true love