The night is
burning
like ...
a funeral pyre
made of memories

In this fire
lay dreams ...
you & I weaved
in spring hues ...
for six months
and a day

you're that
random book
i picked up
and could
never put down

i read you
carefully
page by page
word by word
holding you
like holy scripture
with love
with devotion
studying you
like religion

yet foreign
you remain

you're that
strange book
i found
my story in

Tea an excuse
I'm drinking
the rain, and the gloom
In this cup
I drink memories
there's a silence,
deafening
widespread ,
and frightening
I’m consuming it
I'm drinking
this endless wait
Tea an excuse
I'm drinking
your absence

He said to her
You are a flower
A spring blossom
A rare beauty
I am but a gardener
A possessive one
Afraid to
Lose you
If you wither or wilt
It is my shame
I knew not
How to nurture you

My garden …
is barren
I ‘ve but seen …
only weeds,
in this bleakness
Do not blossom
How to love …
a thing of beauty,
So full of life
To my shame
I do not know

wheels on your cart
that old cart
carrying you
back and forth

in nowhere lane
never arriving
never leaving

timeworn
burden ridden
wobbly wheels

will you mend them
before
your cart fell apart?

or
will you end
your aimless travel
this drifting
when
your cart collapses?

she dipped the quill
deep in her vein
and on her breast
she wrote
in scarlet
a name
that was her poetry
and her undoing