“Shine their shoes, boy.” Of ancient Ulm,
Or was it Hanover, or Vietnam news?

Whatever lives in a coptering leaves breeze flail
Burns, maybe, wrinkles over evening-orange contrails.

From ‘75, with backpack, an American teen.
You lay in a blanket that’s jungle green.

Born of tension, your luggage weared
Containing the last, probably-more, hundred years.

Pressured under coupled oceans that wash
Pepper, in the coasts, of gunpowder shells.

Every bit, godless, and landless there tread
Which is historically typical of a golden head.

You wait, with a significant loss in sheen
While much younger shoes uncover you from the rain.

“My, what a piece of ancient Ulm! It sits
Only in mud! Yet, what of the rest?

Whatever hasn’t yet lost its old meaning
That shining truth which, before, kept it going!”

Glossy, in all youth, in all sorts of sweat,
Heeded a call to consult with a death.

This set-on, and scattered, and ducked into flight
Mind unconsidered so decades might march out of sight.

Lo, quiet perforce a deep trench, or its field
Moving, not across that diptych unperturbed

Every hole through the air punctuates, shreds
The almost-last scream of a now golden head.

You run, run, run, run. Count how many feet touch the mound.
You envision how best you could look underground-

“Now, see: pressed up against its own shoes,
This thing of gold, it’s deformed and bruised!

Wherever we bore— past some trees, down a road;
Far from Ulm— we made a hole which, in it, erodes.”

Grisly, but plaqued, and so, covered up
The very remnants that resulted its death

From long ago, “This- It’s ancient!” some people say
Shipped back with laurel shawl now as its display

“Perhaps you are ageless wrapped in the old war.
Yes, tatters coming back are worth all the more.

Maybe, yes it was sent through so much wreck.
Before, far back it was born of some thread.”

“Shine its throne, man.” Of ancient blood.
That, on his deathbed is a golden head.

A squirrel crosses the road
at the wrong         time?
We pass the squished creature
a moment of silence for
a             mistake?

But what if the squirrel jumped
into the traffic
What if the squirrel was done
ready for it to end

He was a silent squirrel
no one knew much about him
he kept to himself
But the day cam of the tragic...
        accident?

They all said goodbye to his corpse
left him gifts
for a dead squirrel may be
less lonely than
an alive squirrel.

The walls of stone staggered,
as those innocent looking eyes
sought an entry
into my inner world.
If a brick was dislodged,
the whole fence fell.
If a spring flower blossomed
out of an icy condition.
“Pluck it out, stomp on it.”
The manner in which he spoke,
its softness, its kindness a ruse.
Walls of stone crumbled.
Ice dissipated into mist.

Closed my eyes, my ears,
and shut out all my senses.
He reached out,
brought me a bouquet of spring flowers,
and a rhythm of the seasons.
A man like that was worth a chance.

I'm walking in the rain.
My hair is wet.
My clothes are drenched.
I'm not running.

I'm walking in the rain
With no umbrella,
Pulling a suitcase
Of baggage I can’t seem to get rid of.
There’s mascara all down my face.

I'm walking in the rain.
The thunder is loud.
The lightning is blinding.
The wind tries to push me fast—
But I'm walking in the rain.

There was a nonsensical vengeance apon his face. With a rampaging love that took it's toll. In an intransitive moment he knew he could never see her intuitive gorgeous face again. As he bowed out in disgrace fearing she has lost her trust in him. While she made haste to someone safe. She knew even if she waited for there feelings to fizal out they couldn't never just be mates. For there was a sense of belonging  after she left. Knowing she taught him a powerful lesson for being over possessive that no womans a possession. That's when man plays a dangerous game because with every bad action results in consequences of the heart. As newly wed pillows sieged his mind with tears of joy that displays promises of a golden age. As whiskey flows through the moonlight. While her husband was half fainted from drunken vibes dancing with his palpable girl. Knowing displays of rage will never enter his life. Showing array of emotions that inhabited his soul. Feeling starstruck dreams that wakes his sleep in the night as realizes he found Mrs right.

In the world out of sounds and thoughts. No one cares about real people. They live, they die and they never come back. Is it human?

To let the emotions die, in order of power.
To die, and let the world live, because They were scared.

To be or not
to be.

A real human being.

A bird in cage of black and white.
With a bars out of pure sadness.

Sometimes I wonder.
And when I wonder,
I remember, how
it used
to be in my
life.

The dog was half in tone.
The bark. The bark.

How easy it could be,
to let it die.

Yet, how sad it would be to leave,
my little young friend.