slimy moldy time

in the slum,
the slumber seclusion

dusts at dusk

blind,
blind and bound

the dark pound
misledly paints

water lilies
stained pains

a palette,
diluted

Early light in gold,
fresh hay in the dew gloss:
teardrop aquarelle,
outlining our hands' depart
as, still, i watch your sleep, quiet.

The fall of the night.

A walk,
shades of fog,
scents of burning woods.

Winter is coming,
yes.

In my heart,
not a single line.

My singularity,
why have you deserted it?

Brushes of red goldness
devoured by a sky of dark.

windless,
the night
roars,
slithering
in the dark,

brush strokes
of light
ripping
the world -


like an anguish
wipping your heart,
a tremor in your hands
unveiling a fear
unnamed.

While walking down a busy street
A light gust blows the soft rain
Beneath the guise of my umbrella,
Peppering my right cheek.

Her last glimpse of me
Is of the dark tones of my shirt
Smudged into the shades
Of a busy crowd.

Hesitantly at first,
It stutters before
Being forced open
By an impatient passenger;
The doors of a train.

I often find myself
Retracing
Footprints
In the naked snow.

For a while,
I ponder of
The person before me
And the places
They must go.