A poem is a sound.
Its meaning becomes a lyric.
And if you want to feel it,
feel it like a raindrop
that ripples through your soul.
And if it's raining within now,
it's because you listened.

Hearts are
falling flowers.
Stars fall
evanescent
like leaves.
Rain falls
from grey skies
bluer than a waterfall.
Days do not pass.
Time just falls.
Everything around us
are falling within.
But if you're lost,
just go.
Let them fall,
just follow;
for where they do
is home.

White plumerias fall
like moths fluttering the light
Of a crescent moon.

If I would be born again
I'd be a humble leaf.
Leaves, when they fall in time,
do not break.
And there wouldn't be too much sadness,


but just peace.

You were a butterfly lost in the middle of the sea.
You were a feather silently falling with the leaves.
You were a shadow burning in the moonlight,
looking for the midnight sun.

Flowers were breathing.
As I trod trees had cloudwreaths
In the mizzlemist.

I whispered a secret
to the senescent trees
while flowers breathe through
and as toadstools eavesdropped.
Within the wintry treeshades
I peeked through
the misty oceans above
upon where stealthy Mr.Thunder
has kept on skipping and hopping
and leaping from one silver cloud
over another, where for
every leap was a growling cloud
and for each brave growl
was a silver rainfall,
but poor Mr.Thunder
still couldn't give a good chase
to his fleeing rainbow chariot,
till it had sunken deep
skyrimming in the underclouds
to the mauvy meadows where
it had always frolicked through,
and me, in the underwoods
where we had always built
wreaths of purple memories
before soaking ourselves long
in the silvery mud,
bethinking in sunken moments
to just become ghosts
with only memories
because even rainbows leave.
Thursday with blue spirits
waiting for when would
this dreamy mind alight
from looking for
where my heart has crestfallen
deep at, how I had lost it.
So I bite into the mist
of the peeking dusk.

My bluest spirit has taken it,
a secret the sleepy woods know.