Graceful life by the river
doesn’t end by choice.

Some war like lightening
is more worthy.
But what is Death worth.
If life is priceless?

So the tree must fall.
By hands or by flood.
By grace or by worth.
By light or in darkness.

And when it does,
By god the world will hear.
It will be.
As it was.

Sycamore, Sycamore,
fell on thee
Sycamore, Sycamore,
hear thy plea.

I be smile sick
And tired as books
But I be pondering on a snow-less starfire
freezing
burning
then turning
not changing
but searching.

I be the speckled lights of morning bright
Eyes be pins on skin like needle.
Thoughts be fickle and love be feeble

I be writing skies
then erasing
I be life
            worth screaming.

The fault
in our
stars

is neither
intensity nor
quantity.

Fear not the cosmos
choked up in creation
might’ve forgotten
some fiery ingredient.

No

The fault
in our stars
is simply
that there are none.