A song lasts forever once it is held
as a secret found, arriving with
these words, “seek me not when you wish
to find me, you will adrift to my embracing
arms unknowingly, whether in leaves as pages,
stars as eyes, flowers as hearts, the floating
petals as the lover’s touch, the words we share
as the moon drifting the waves, I seek to
be the one that touches you as the stars in their tides,
the soft lavender dancing in the wind and carrying
the aroma through your hair, nature allows you to see
the light silently glowing in others, the steps of people
are as the fields soaring under a zephyr wind,
your hands reach for the skies, I return to you as your
origin, as the fragile and deep bud waiting to be opened
as the others, whom, as you, await the sunlight awakening,
seeker of truth, look no farther than the bird upon
your palm, singing a prayer of home to be
created wherever you may roam, whether it is
in the fields of flowers or in the beyond
of you and I.

Unscented flower


Things went south
As you utter pleasantry
That comes with titter

I stayed disheartened
In-between forced laugh;
Caused by ancient occasion

Waiting with bated breath for fortuity to cut-off the lines
I thought, I have never been
Impatient to arrive at the period while writing a sentence

Predicament has once again occurred ;
Scratching off thorns on my flower scene played in my head

En voyage to holocaust
A sigh whether of relief or misery have escaped between my lips

Deep breath I took
In dread that you would
Take away the scent from my flower once you depart

like Alice,

we seek to find keys to rooms
that we do not know what mysteries lie behind

to mould ourselves to fit the openings
of terrors and temptations

to contort ourselves into a place
of ecstasy and enlightenment

can there really be anything more thrilling in live

that standing in front of a lock
hands shaking in anticipation,
not knowing how you will open it
but swearing to yourself that you will find a way

because one day,
one way, one lock, one key, one door

might lead you home

When she folds into me and weeps,
The world of empty things falls into me
Like the wetness of July in antiquated Rome,
Mother of tears, Mater Lachrymarum, in Forum stone,
The rain-addled veneers of Octavia’s portico.

Gather up these black sickened bellies of ruins,
Turn them out to make hunger the den of the skies,
Let the cracked whisper of each monument and temple
Breathe as Caesar, in unending stillness like a bare road.

A road is the sadness of seeing our beginning
But knowing love its far-off end is foretold.