I live in fear
                  and worry.

While I'm here

everything is a slight
                           against me.

                           Noone to go to and
          nowhere to flee

                 The only thing keeping me
   here is money

Tell me all is well
                                        No need
to hurry

But the clock
is ti           ck   ing

                                                                 I can't see

                                                       what I'm mis sing               ?

              nothing matters

                               more
                        than money  ?

Her soft petals fall,
easy as wild poetry:
muse for medicine.

It starts with a hello
Pretend you have a little halo
And it's bright and yellow
"Are you Asian?"
"Yes."
No, not her skin color
But your halo

Then politely
Ask for her name
"How tall are you?"
That would be 4'9
No! Her name.

You talked
She listened.

She spoke
Her audience lessened.

You laughed.
While she cried.

You said Goodbye.
Finally,
A smile.

There was an Old Person of Ewell,
Who chiefly subsisted on gruel;
But to make it more nice
He inserted some mice,
Which refreshed that Old Person of Ewell.

12 o'clock
never seems to stop
I threw a rock
at the grandfather clock
but the tick tock
doesn't stop

What a happy thought;
As I'm overwhelmed with fear as our plane shakes with turbulence left to right I suddenly hear the sweet sound of children giggling with joy, having no clue how high in the air we are or what the possibility of this could all mean.

I'll trade you my heavy heart for your fresh perspective

Seething beauty
is a lost flower

is a haunting memory
reminding me of my foolish mistakes

a wind crashing against my lonely tower
forcing ink from every crack and crevice
like sulking tears
amassing briefly, before falling to the earth.

if only, if just, for a..
but it was all, no more than a fleeting moment.

and I crumble in impatience, like a child,
unable to build a brighter future

from the ashes of this burnt down garden..

that once flourished,

at the sight of
at the scent of
at the thought of

you.

867

Escaping backward to perceive
The Sea upon our place—
Escaping forward, to confront
His glittering Embrace—

Retreating up, a Billow’s height
Retreating blinded down
Our undermining feet to meet
Instructs to the Divine.