Some genius
Told me to expect
Danger and death
I died because of the carelessness
Of some idiot who forgot
To fear God and the flood

I like the way my father talks about trees. Introducing me to the one across the street from the new house—"This one's a sycamore, and I'd say it's doing a **** good job at it." It'd be a cliché to say he thinks of them as his friends, which he doesn't. But it wouldn't be overdone to say that he knows them as if they were, which he does.

Who am I?
But a collection of sounds in colors?
Of tastes in scents?
Of misery in delight?

I am nothing but the shadow
of good times
and there
lost files.

She was moonlit skin
wrapped in the silence of the night
with dew drops for eyes
and a soul
made of wet earth.