The arms of eternity open,
like a sentimental bolero played
at some in-between place,
they open lazily
and incandescently,
encircling the comically and silently raging,

Poetically, and gently,
the phantom draws her wings towards forgetfulness -
at the eye of the temple -
distant,
full of guidance
and potential.
The profound silence of bitter lives.

In the dead of night
     neither moon nor stars in sight
     only the winds' sigh

Not the art of speaking
      but that of not-speaking
      which is the more important thing

I am an unknown writer
  not agonised if plagiarised
  instead would be taken to delight
  with a great element of surprise

for my limits I know so well
thousands of writers out there
have so many great things to tell
these folks would detect  at once I'm only hot-air!

I wandered lonely as a rose by Autumn's gate
as I lay there in still repose, petals strewn      
I fell apart like dessert moon;
The scent that once perfumed my reign
were mellowed by September's rain
I drifted distant in the woods.
All my husks fell to the soil
each petal dried right where it stood    
No gardener's hand of hue embroiled
that filament that quivered slow  
like dying embers of nights glow
Shambled, windblown as the wind
beneath the last of summer's ray
regretfully I did rescind
As summer lost her fired splay
I wandered,
Lost and alone like a rose,
until the end of summer froze.

"Physical matter is music solidified" – Pythagoras

You stand there with that rose in your hair
singing that small song in a big big way
your voice cracks and you stare at the air
while everyone else is thinking, No Way !

You once were a mouse with no door
and your voice was a tiny whimper
Today you sing as if your life is much more
than a mere complicated existence, its much simpler

Your stand there with that rose all askew
thinking your a femme fatale, and by the way,
who asked you ?