I became one of you
When I found the corridor of light
I became one of us
Here in the corridor of light

The birds are silent by day
It is the life of night
The life of nights
Born from the cries of birds

Once I burned in blazing fire
My eyes stared like flames
My pointed hair caught fire
In the mirror of amber

Where are all the brothers?
A great flood buried the quarter
While well-mannered, decent people
Deliberated at bright window fronts

The cries of the birds turned to
Sand
The birds flew away
I became one of us

Autumn’s Sleep
She wakes in the morning
as the sunshine’s through
pours herself a coffee
a spoon of pain and sorrow to

her friends are shades of reds, yellow
tertiary colors to

her insides so broken
for so long
they won’t fuse

She goes to sleep at ebony's feet
not caring enough
to see another tomorrow

Beautifully Broken
2024

Has your soul ever been displayed,
Framed by thick wooden-glazed borders,
and set up in the gallery of another's life?

Can you say the painting of you
Beams with joy through heavy clouds,
Sliced by sharp shards of glass-like light?

If not, may you then brush-up yourself,
Quick blots of pink on sunken cheeks,
Lighten the shade under each eye?

Or will you draw the curtain,
Blind me to me, and you to you,
Pinch out the last flicker of fight?

It was real.
I can feel it.
Like fingers wrapping
Around my wrist.
Wispy and delicate...
Or rough and jagged?

You tell me it never happened.
But why is my pillow stained with my tears?

Because I know my tears were real.
But to you...
They were just phantom tears.

I understand what I used to be
I understand I used to glow and laugh and smile
Everyone loved that
I was carefree
Feeling like honey bathed in sweet, warm sunshine

And now...
Not even a stalker can pinpoint
                                                        ­ where
                                                           ­               it
                                               ­                                   went
                         ­                                                                 ­   downhill
But telling a drowning person they used to be on land doesn't save them.

I once hung clothes
from a line, canned
strawberries, and wished
for paved streets.

Now, I long for gravel
dusted sheets blowing in the wind
beside strawberry fields
concrete can’t reach.