She's standing there in the beams of the moon,
Listening to the traveling wind's tune.
Surrounded by the wonders of nature,
Walking around in her sweet leisure.
Here is the place where her silk meets the leaves,
Who will never merge even when she leaves.
While the wind carries the past, she does too,
Adding color to history's gray hue.

I grew from a tree...
Into a beautiful beast
I grew to believe...
That my lean to the east
Was due to the sun
But every other tree was straight
I picked up a gun...
And cleaned the slate

on poetry*

A poem is only a mouthful of air
until it is read.
Imagine it. Craft it carefully
from your heart's flesh.
Seal it in a bottle
of clear, pure words.
Set it adrift on
the ocean of time,
life's restless surge,
until a few congruous spirits
pluck it from the sea-wrack
and recognize a message
that illuminates their souls.
Readers find writers;
never the opposite.

I've been trying to find
A Polaroid picture of love
With camera in hand
Been all over this land
Hoping against hope that it'll show up

The instant gratification
Developing right before your eyes
Watching love unfold
In colorful Polaroid
Is what I am trying to find

The vast space between them
As the sun continually chases the moon,
Who smiles back at the sun.
Watching her in the dark
Knowing she's admiring him from afar,
The sun can distinguish the moon
In the dark with a thousand stars
But the moon has trouble finding the sun.
One day, they'll be in front of each other.

As the moon says,
   " Ah, this is the girl who radiates
       As beautiful as the stars around me"
And the sun says,
   "So, I finally get to see the boy
       Who perfectly reflects my light,
       A quiet mirror of my own image"

When that day comes,
That will be the time
The world will stop.

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

It is winter
and I have had
no time to
prepare for it

tinsel tangled
around fake
trees

broken fairy lights
the flicker like the
wings of a trapped
butterfly

the smell of
cinnamon that
reminds me
of childhood

was I happy
back then?

was my heart
torn and troubled
with a quiet
discontent

do I remember
happiness?

I am sure it is
locked tight
somewhere
inside of me

a cage that
holds the ruins
of the past

it is cold and
wet, I am drenched
down to the bone

December shouts and screams
demanding my attention
like a crying, hungry baby

I am lost in its folds
a timeless tapestry
of snow and freezing toes

it repeats,
every year
like clockwork

and the cogs
are rusty and
creek as they turn

how many more years
can I stand it?

how many more
dreams of death
can I awaken from?

I fell for their promises,
the arrogant belief
that life begins again
as the clock strikes twelve

******* hell, it hurts
salt rubbed in an open
wound that people try
to fill with joy

I am breathless
and heavy with
the weight of
the future

when it feels
impossible to
imagine one