I could write
on emotion alone.
Through bitterness,
I sought beauty.
With rage,
I expressed
the torrent within.
All was aflame,
all had burned brightly.

But now,
it is naught but a flicker.
I pass time quietly,
as the ash of past emotions
blanket the landscape with grey.
I am tired.
I fear I may
never recover.

Let them be
as petals of a flower
scattered by the breeze.

If a poem
cannot be read
by for whom it's for,
then the heart asks,
what is it for.

I know only
how to dream.

The worlds
I have quietly
put together
are not so different
than my life now.
But there,
everything is laced
with moonlight;
a soft glow.

I am free to indulge
every detail.
How many times
have I imagined
how the wood
of a window sill
would feel against my finger tips?

What had burned
turned to ash.
In the end,
even a violent blaze
turns to nothing.
Which flame lasts forever?

I give ashes
as proof of what once was.
Judge me, as you like,
but know the dust before you
was once with form;
warm and bright.

If I am to be lost,
then let it be;
I shall be as
a grain of sand
in the currents of the ocean.

I reach for words,
to claw back from the depths
of a terrible
listlessness.
But I cannot find them,
I cannot even write.

I wait
for spring;
the petals
on a fleeting breeze;
the scent of grass
made soft by the warm sun;
the hymn of life
started by the first birdsongs of the morning;
the faint hum
of beating wings
as a bee lands gently
on the pistil of a flower;
the lukewarm night
where the moon peers curiously
at the yellow-orange tinge of sunrise.