Do not pity the
flower that has
died, it will bloom
once more, as an
ephemeral moment in life
you held dearly, in truth,
you were unaware of
how it always
returned.

While
drinking
tea by
the sea,
I travel
forever
when
I close my
eyes, and
become
the soft
waves of
memory,
whiteness
becomes
the pearls
of reverie,  
I will
return
as I have
always
done,
I forget
the dew
falling from
this heart
of mine and heal.

I had
wished
to write
for the one
I cherished,
If only
I had
known
of how  
expression
of oneself
was not
as simple,
to paint the
complex
nature  
of human
feeling and
thoughts in
written form
could not
possibly
be only
held,
for they
are the
clouds
of my
esse
in flight,
even if
the words
were
written,
they remain
unwritten
as the
pages are
endless,
as the  
eyes of
the one
I see
as mine,
I sat
by the
ocean,
the
lantern
of the
sky
rises,
the one
I loved
now
sings,
I ask not
when he
gives,
tears
fall
for the
one
who
was
there
before
my lips
spoke
his name,
always.

A fairy
who
only
flew
under
the fall
of night
met her
lover
under
the songs
of stars
in choirs
of light,
they rest
under
the petals
of a white
rose, her
lover asks,
“how can
I find words
to paint
beauty
with my
lips?”
to which
the fairy
says to
him,
“why do
you feel
the will
to open
your
lips?
all that
slumbers
awaken
when
the eyes
alone find
beauty”
they
gaze
upon the
white
lanterns
of the
dark
in a
ripple
of tides
in the
leaves,
the wings
of a bird
drifting
as a
dream in
awakening,
the fairy
rises with
her lover,  
amongst the
moonflowers
and violets
above,
they flew
by lunar
guidance
towards
a field
of indigo
shades,
they descend
and softly
rest upon
the yellow
hearts,
the fairy
turns to
her lover,
and says,
“the
leaves
sing as
our own
tale, in
symphony
with the
delicate
branches
of our veins,
we lie
here and
hear the
music we
once had
sought to
hide, we
wished to
write about
it, rather,
we closed
our eyes,
for the ones,
as us, who
tightly
caged
their  
words are
the ones
with the
deepest
wells of
feeling,
we are
living,
breathing
oceans,
clothed
in skin,
living tiny
moments
of poetry
every
hour,
don’t
you
see
this?”
to which
he says,
“I do,
and here
it comes,
the
golden
light”
it arrives,
in touch
of all that
it sees,
and the
fairy
whispers,
“let us
sleep,
and
return
as specks
of time”
they close
their eyes,
the bird
rests upon
a lone
tree,
the peace
of the
Idyll, in its
picturesque
eternity,
still prevails.

Little
flowers
opened
as you
kissed me
lightly,
the petals
under the
moonlight
dance,
we wore
the robes
of the stars,
and gazed
upon the
tides, we
wondered
how they
beheld
a dream,
always
there
as the
sea of
our
arms,
gilded
in silver
scales,
returning
to a
home
where
you keep
these
hands of
mine
close, be
delicate,
for you
hold my
heart
and
yours.

The poet
of the night
closed her
eyes, and
dreamed of
little stars
as details
in the small
moment of
beauty she
beheld, as a
painting
once hidden,
now coming
alive before
her eyes, as
wondrous
as when
she had
first
met the
pages
of a book,
and held
them
more
dearest
than the
petals of
a flower
held close
to her
heart,
forever in
bloom.

Dunes
fall on
the shore
of skin,
a poet
closes
her eyes,
in a place
beyond
our own,
the sands
felt soft
upon her
hands, her
thoughts
as water,
in wonder
if they
are
here,
or in
dream,
the grains
of time
under
lights
of the
moon
are her
tides
upon the
sand
hills
of the
stars,
the
guides
above
hold the
hidden
songs,
heard only
in silence,
clouds
emerge, the
monsoon
of spirit
chants
the words
of the
writer
painted
in rain
upon
pages,
dew falls
upon the
palms,
the poet
gazes
upon the
skies, her
hymn is
heard,
“are you
near,
or the
breath
of mine?”,
the winds
rise, the
desert
calls,
“are
you I?”