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that spring i had to leave
before the lilac trees bloomed.

the hills of peace slowly changed
to the streets washed with bleach.

empty mountain dew bottles
on the pavement
took the place of the grass.

this city was never going to grow
because people were always so upset
about days with rain.

three weeks in
i caught myself wondering.

wondering if:

if the color of the lilac i left was
as purple as a healing bruise?

if their tower blocks were in fact
built to see the other side?

if the time were to stop
would that be still called eternity?

then a lifeless object rang
and reminded me
to get back to my new life.

the imagine of the budded trees
slowly erased from my mind.
i know this poem is bulit in a weird way, but i liked the first lines i wrote and said i should continue it all this way.

As I tidy, I organise time in little pill-pockets, sweep debris from sills and tables. I dice their cravings and fancies into some sort of meal, and wash nine hours of lines trod and toed from my clothes, ready for morning.  

These things make me feel needed, and I resent them as though they are chains. Do you draw me as selfish?


As I rest, I see my oldest cup with my keys; my coat and cleaned-boots left by the radiator gathering heat, and I wrap myself in a patchwork of dreams. I catch a wink - my favourite colours - beaded from the heartbreak-dark of a room.

These things make me feel loved, and I breathe them as though they are air.
Do you draw me as ungrateful?


As I watch, I turn my reflection this way, that way, pile ink-hair on her crown. I imagine my burgundy dress fall over her hips to the floor -  reveal to my mind the vanity of sheer-stockings and dark eyelash-lace on porcelain skin.    

These things make me feel beautiful, and I miss them as though they are dead.
Do you draw me as shallow?

Making a list of
things to do , trees begin to
look forward to spring

Spring will be here soon x
The boys of summer
Grew beautiful and stronger
Sprang into spring
Like a springtime flower
They bloomed and they blossomed
Perfectly awesome
Pure and true
My boys they grew
Only God, He knew
How could it be
with a mother like me
Jaded and strewn
Brought into my life of ruins
But God He knew
All I needed was two
To help me heal
My wounds did seal
All burdens and darkness
Turned into brightness
I found true love
Not as a wife
But a mother instead
some songs are
not electric

they are lonely
meant only for

your soul
meant to be

your secret
never shared

you can dance
to it if

you want to
just not with

a partner
it has to be

just your body
feeling itself

lost in its
own space
I twist and contort from the light
Hiding my cracking porcelain skin
If I step too hard an arm will fall to the earth and shatter. Turn to quick and my ribs will crumble inwards. So delicate I walk on glass  stick legs, careful my footprints don’t leave stains in the snow. I shudder upwards towards the moon but only reach my bedroom window, in I go, they’ll never know.
I prop myself up on the wire stand that keeps me from collapsing and gently lower down the bell jar that keeps me safe. I pop a blue pill to sleep and pray I don’t wake up tomorrow.
he panted heavily
muscles twitching in his naked body
running frenzied, without looking back,
he shouted, “He is after me.... my life”
a rip roaring cry....!

the traffic halted
pedestrians stopped
people from shops came out
women through curtained windows peeped
children stopped their play

“so drunk”.... a man murmured
“A crack”.... someone shouted
“coming right after an ****”
sneered, an oldie...
“pity on him...! Take him to an asylum”
one gentleman suggested.
he needs help, majority opined
‘nab this plague’, the moral police quipped

what is he running from...?

an Assailant....?
corona virus....?
his own phantom...?
two sane men staying,
at a corner wondered.
they had masks on their face

“must be a health worker”..!
one of them said...
“yes, the subtle nuances of an agonized mind”
the other agreed!

as the scene on the road,
had grown into a high voltage drama,
dissensions grew and multiplied!
"Many a physics graduate student has gnashed her teeth in frustration over the mathematics of general relativity. Perhaps she should try envisioning a flat, boundless desert, with rocks of various sizes scattered across its surface, whose mass creates dips of various depths in the sand. A sturdy canopy looms over that desert, stretched tightly over a skeleton of tent poles linked by bars, matching the rises and dips in the sand beneath it. The desert is all the matter and energy in the universe, while the canopy is the geometry of space-time. The poles and bars are the equations of general relativity, connecting the stuff of the universe with the shape of the universe. As Halpern writes: “Mass and energy warp space-time, telling it where and how to curve. The shape of space-time, in turn, governs how things move within it.”
My mass and my energy are both warped, so the where's and the how's and the eyes of my curves are the poles and the bars of behind which I relentlessly cease to exist, only to seize what lies beyond the constraints of time and space, as eye wait for the bus to stop in the No Standing zone
The Bus Poet
Eyes like black pools
Filled with sadness
In the depth
A little fire burning
Hidden passion of a broken soul
An ink tear
Juice from a blue heart
For he has forgotten her
Left in a solitaire dance

Ultimate sadness
 Jan 10
Seranaea Jones

Lines border my eyes like new roads
to more distinguishing characteristics,
signifying for me many a morning frown.

I draw my face closer to the mirror to
examine them in more detail, mapping
pending destinies laid fresh like asphalt.

Traces of purple fans out from the exterior
corners, I think of them as ink spatter that
gets larger every time I endorse

a small check.

I cannot stop the runs but I can
hide the evidence with concealer
creams and foundation,

establishing a façade upon which
the viewer will find as pleasant
from just the right                          

I stand back just so approximately
from the mirror to admire
an illusion of youth,

and then move forward once more
to fathom the texture
of experience—

"Maybe less this time" I think,
have I not earned the right ?

s jones

10 Jan 2021
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