The dainty names
in which he paints.
There they’re kept—
folded and whatnot
in his pocket they rot.

The cries never fold
To these names that he holds.
Anyplace he walks,
he’s always full of daunt.

When will he ever tackle those lost hearts,
and soothe the tortured wards.

Why, why
There was a time—
When Hearts used to fly.
When I rip those roots
That was to be mine.

I rip them all—
line by line.
Wondering where’d
you bury those ties?

Africa's most golden treasure ,the savanna.
Where nature plays a tune.
Burnt orange, striking  reds fill the air .
And a captivating moon.
There roam gentle giants as ancient like the sun.
They gather all around to protect their young.
Deep bonds of love through generations.
That stands the test of time .

Everything in my line of sight goes out of focus
Tired, but not sleepy
Just zoned out
Just tuned... out.