Peered through the ideal imagery
of petty dream-spun avenues.
Brushed the quiet tides that rose
in fluid blends of milky down.
The clamour of the Westbound flocks
that scarred the last in pulsing chevrons
told of lands beyond the lay
of harlequin recline.

The lilac swathes that bled to blue
then proffered airs a saintly glow
cooled in easy idiom, the rapid
pyroclastic flow of dry diurnal doubt.

Aromatic night descended,
petals closed on avenues
to the path, the stars attended
cold eternal retinue.
Far ushers of the dew gilt foot
in concert with the silver seethe,
the mist in supple opulence,
an ***** to breathe.

Of all the colors
or incense of fragrance imbued
of lavender in fields, violet blue
or softer still the lilac florets all abloom
pale silk, sweet the honeysuckle dew
drips and drinks the yellow painted tanager
and flits afield the newly winged swallowtail
the thrum and dance of bees bright in floral symphonies
gathering, heavy laden in the bending breeze
of all the colors, this bird iridescently shimmering
blue into the disappearing trees
too soon another day to lose
of all the colors, a favorite
I can never choose.

.

Here lies a poem,
once a thing of beauty  
flowing with love and desire,
inspired by affectionate dreams,
adored by many for the feelings
it contained for another within,
now nothing more than
irrelevant thoughts and words,
lifeless phrases and stanzas,
weakened and aging verses of
mid-sentence fractures
overtaken by youthfulness
as it seeps deeply
into the void . . . forgotten

Here lies a poem
that is far too old
for its own good

I stared at her
I knew then she’s unique
But I saw confusion
Still thinking if she’s real

I stared at her
Saw her lovely eyes
Not blue but brown eyes
It is so deep that I want to dig

I stared at her
She looks like always trying
I want to reassure her
That she’s already enough

I stared at her
I realized she’s beautiful
Even though years grew on her
There’s one thing I love about her

The mole above her right eyebrow

Then I put the mirror down
No longer staring at her.

she did it.  
her teeth eaten.
tongue swallowed.
mouth made vestigial.

words: in the miscellaneous drawer, pls.

guts move quicker than light or thought, i've found.
caught in the (thoroughly) dusty
ceiling blades of
ergh quotidian spins, whyyyeff.my.life

she -somehow-
drew in
this awe, for now.

ellipses feed feed,
till it says it all
without uttering
one silly little
syntactical arrangement,
ever again; this, her stir.

dot dot dot
dot dot

and with a few
small jots felt,
she wrote

my hurt
down.

joy, again: like a note passed in class.