Little dewdrops on the yellow grass
Shudder slightly in the morning light
As the colors change from blue to white
And I feel the warm sunlight on my face

there are lots of questions that dont seem to have answers

i sometimes think

or answers too awful to endure

so i just let them drift off in the languid water

Shimmering forms fading away

Raindrops from the old oak tree
Fall very slowly
And run down my cheek

What's next, then?
Suicide or Madness?

All the things we neglect to say or feel
are stored up somewhere
swirling and undulating in the deep

Eventually, they all rise up--
in a single violent urge
it exits our cowering bodies all at once

and there's nothing one can do but shake

There is a place, before the kings keep
Where those looks of solemn dignity
Go resignedly to weep
Between the gray trees and under gray canopy

To the place where wildflowers wilt and muses mutter
Little words, falling like white feathers in the muddy water

If one walks between the trees
There is a basin, and liquid of silvery green
Imbued with the mutterings of agony unseen

It is the words of those sorrows frail
Spoken with a breath and then a look of fright
And then a frantic run from faces clothed by night
Dissecting looks unrelenting judgments
upon the unredeemed

all who have felt the pain such as muses sing
And cried at night or betwixt the thorny leaves
have drunk of this basin green
And felt the hot swell of sorrow rising from the deep
crevices of our frail corporeal shells

And the voices of all those who filled it up
Violently swell in undulating liquid wail

From those who walk betwixt the trees
Is sounded the great collective scream.

Laying in the lawn
On a boring day
Looking up at the plain blue
"How unimaginative"

I throw the little knife into the air
To see where it lands