’Twas noontide of summer,
  And midtime of night,
And stars, in their orbits,
  Shone pale, through the light
Of the brighter, cold moon.
  ’Mid planets her slaves,
Herself in the Heavens,
  Her beam on the waves.

  I gazed awhile
  On her cold smile;
Too cold—too cold for me—
  There passed, as a shroud,
  A fleecy cloud,
And I turned away to thee,
  Proud Evening Star,
  In thy glory afar
And dearer thy beam shall be;
  For joy to my heart
  Is the proud part
Thou bearest in Heaven at night,
  And more I admire
  Thy distant fire,
Than that colder, lowly light.

It was many and many a year ago,
  In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
  By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
  Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
  In this kingdom by the sea:
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
  I and my ANNABEL LEE;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
  Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
  In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
  My beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
  And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
  In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
  Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
  In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
  Chilling and killing my ANNABEL LEE.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
  Of those who were older than we—
  Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in heaven above,
  Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
  Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
  Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
  Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
  In her sepulchre there by the sea—
  In her tomb by the side of the sea.

Still,
like a morning breath,
one stood.
Rays of purple,
arose over skin.
A familiar coloring,
as the moon was birthed from the night sky,
and the purple transformed black.
Sitting still in one's skin,
an internal scream,
and shattered self promises.
Left too little,
to be blossomed beautiful,
once more.

Unmute.
And not an uncommon sight,
a child sits in a solitary corner,
eyes salted as he witnesses the screams,
of his parents choke the air.
Not much sense is made,
in blank silence.
Not much sense is made,
in unharmed skin.

They laugh.
They sigh.
They let the wind blow away,
the precious moments of stability.
What becomes superior to it?
The force,
which converts one's ego,
to harm another.
And develops a promise,
that is a new shade of purple..
a perfect tear to his eye,
another breath struggling to be taken.

Cliche.
A word.
A word to describe,
a bare moment..
of happiness.

A sip led to another,
and I was in a drunken twilight.
My body,
pressed in your lap,
my hands,
running through your hair.

Not a moment had I felt,
and insecurity in protection.
Your arms wouldn't be found,
anywhere but on my skin.
Causing me a shiver,
in a romantic twist.

My eye level rises.
They are fixed.
On the mess you let me make
of your hair.
The eyes that hold me hostage.
And the smile,
that baked my heart.  
An aesthetic trapped in my mind.
The look,
that always made me recall my love for you.

It's like a cycle.
He enters at the rate,
any new-comer would.
Charming.
Gentle.
Fast as that autumn breeze,
he illustrates a whirl in your mind.
Your life.
You depic beauty in his eyes.
Autumn bursts into a heavy fall.
Face first,
and he is no where.
Your eyes weather.
They bring heavy rain.

It's like a cycle.

A hope,
a glimmer,
is upon the iced winter.
The air crisp as a sweet apple.
A stable environment,
happiness birthed each day.
All stood at a pause,
but a warmth seemed to be inching.
Suttle and simple
Beauty had arisen,
in oranges, pinks, and blues.
Spring.
You were being educated,
in what was once,
the love of autumn.
Warmth.
Compassion.
Greater and unwilling to harm...
An unjust statement.
A drizzle,
and he vanished.

It's like a cycle.

A blazing sunshine.
A clear sky.
A past to be forgotten.
The grass healthy,
as footprints were laid upon it.
Laughter is where it was chosen to be.
A memory,
never to be forgotten.
Not a change in the air,
but a slight breeze.
It was over.
Beauty was freshly created.
Life was returned in your eyes...
But you had failed to visualize,
a season,
once born,
must die,
and must return once more.
In a silent twilight,
he brings another autumn.

It is a cycle.

Communication of shallow hearts. One to dream, and one to awaken with a sense of alcoholic poisoning. If bare sheets were to speak, they would only mumble, because they are pushed to a far loneliness.
She awakens to a breath of poisoned air. Locked in a hotel room; shallow heart’s only nightmare, but great wonder. Her wonder came as an angel proclaiming divinity. At the particular moment, rain came as her eye’s procured yonder to meet another’s. A mouth opens as her shuts. Stale alcohol filled the space between her and another.
A smell equivalent to depression, yet eager for a happy ending, in the hand of another. Quite a funny concept when brought to one’s mind. How one can explore any body they’ve laid their eyes upon. Hand in hand. One hand begins to slide. Just a minor adjustment can lead to such of intimidation and intimacy. Beauty itself could not define this concept.
She did not find this so. How can one remember a previous moment in life with such mistakes. He told her not to go. Frivolously she hadn’t listened. All passion was eradicated in what was once envied from strangers as they passed out on the streets.


The 20th of a warm May evening. The humidity made the air difficult to inhale for small breaths, but she had discovered a liking to it. Not that evening. Her mind blossomed for anything his lips began to curve for. An alteration in the air seemed to occur as she attained an umbrella in one hand. The other hand though, was occupied. But, not by a suitcase. Her minded consistently fled from the common “I’m packing my bags and leaving you” tale. Not a lie to tell, this was on her mind. Her hand continued to remain occupied, by a man on his knees.
See, the irony always struck Anabell..Ana, as he insisted sounded luscious just as the daisy he placed in her hair. As he proposed, one knee remained gently on the grass below. Serenity played in the air on repeat. In the present moment, tears darken the freshly replaced carpet. Two knees bounded to the floor. Possibly implied that the love was greater? How could the impact of just a body part create such an twist of irony in her mind?
Regardless, her hand resisted grip. “Good god..I love you,” he croaked against his damp eyes. “ Don’t put yourself on the dangers of streets. Please take the keys..Promise me you’ll be back tomorrow..Ana please..please come back.” She resisted to adjust her focus back. The door. It’s handle. What the rust that dominated over the once gold shine. Irony. She held a laugh. A laugh that centered on insanity and the saturation of her mental being. Ana’s one central focus was on the “yellow brick road” beyond that ****. The grasp was loose; almost nonexistence. As arduous as it had become in those minimal seconds, his eyes were there. His eyes were inadequate to an adjective.
Such a stereotypical concept in itself , but Ana drew circles pondering the topic. She was not one for anatomy, but those eyes. His pupils burned the color black. A blessing, just ready for one to study.  Any poet would blow a kiss to this concept. The beauty glossed over into the sky above as the blue became a shade darker by the minute once the evening was birthed. A hyperbole for the warmth given off by his eyes. The beauty she created from this scenario, aided to her own failure.
Ana destroyed her own thought processing. It conserved her sanity and if she were to follow, not a finger could reach the door.
She walked without a single regret. Whether it was uncontrollable impulse, or lack of love..no one was capable of knowing.

They said that,
tragedy holds the greatest power,
to unite a nation together.
Have we ever stopped,
to ponder why it is,
that we were not as one?

From the infant steps imprinted,
by the feet of the wide-eyed;
Pilgrims blew a farewell to the Mayflower.
Their minds were immature to reality.
Survival was a game,
but not played unaccompanied.

It took not a great mind,
no,
but the acceptance of another.
The knowledge to see the greater,
the talent,
in one of a counter race.
Neither built a feast,
off of hatred,
false convictions,
or flesh coloring.
For,
it was built from something grander..

Unity.

Turn the clocks.
Let them tick away.
Where are we now?
We brawl..
over the superior race.
We debate on who,
constitutes to the degree,
of having a worth to life.
Our streets are sprawled with blood,
some of those who preach the protection,
of the violence that is destroying us.

If we,
were to be the pilgrims,
1620,
would we hold hands with whom we did not know?
Or would we choose to perish,
only for that,
the hand reaching out,
is unfamiliar in shade?

We suffer,
because we refuse to see.
We fail to give the hand,
to those we have grown to seem unfamiliar.
Our mindset refuses,
to except a difference.
Thus,
we are allowing ours streets to be stained red,
We suffer,
because we do not help ourselves grow as one.

Unity.