The winter was unkind
Yet you loved it
So much,
It was your gauche friend,
Reclusive in its blankness,
Complicit with its demands for
Many layers,
As snow is complicit in ****** -
Snuggling coldly into
Footprints.

And I remember the simpering
Light
That night,
As it squeaked into the
Room like
Lab rats bred for death.
I remember the slip
Of your body on the sheets
And your
Speech bubble breath
Spearmint ellipses,
Your teeth white
Your eyeballs white
Your watch-face white
The witch behind you
White,
Whispering the content
Of her
Turkish delight
And sculpting you
For her museum.

(Nothing ever really warmed you up.
How I hated that winter.)

I put the heating on and
Showed you the
Wedding dress –
An antique affair
That had been passed down.
My sister did not want it,
As she is not at all romantic.

When I got back from
The bathroom
You were out of bed,
Holding the dress against yourself,
Stuck in the mirror,
Head turned,
Absolutely lost -
A tiny bride
White as a
Snow tongued branch
And just as still,
Waiting for the wind
Or the clouds
Or some kind of joy
To move you.

She eats with bare hands;
A handful of garbage,
A mouthful of life. A day's
Survival and revival,

And healing  of a frail
Body failed by a society
Of affluence, by a faith
Preaching benevolence.

She is an anathema to the
Conscience shaped by a
Consciousness that defines
Being as having. Having

Her before our very eyes
Is itself a sin to our very
Selves, if not to a God who
Sees our humanity as frail

As this child's body.

                           "How is it, that every
                           Execution offends us more
                           Than a ******? It is the
                           Coldness of judges, the painful

                            Preparation that a child is
                            Here being used as a means to
                            Deter reality. For guilt is not
                            Being punished , even if there

                            Were guilt; guilt lies in the
                            Educators, the parents, the
                            Environment, in us, not in her
                            Innocence.**"

Dream world in an alternate ground reality
where the black trees are shadows
lurking and waiting to consume the firefly
light illuminating my blood
like radioactive sludge pulsing
loving breathing
I want the transcendent mauve sky
to drown me until I am nothing more
than the ideals of humanity
murmuring of the metal birds
and mammals
humming harmoniously with the
beat of my ears
I am not awake
I have been here before
somewhere in a past life
I can feel it rattling in my bones
another radio frequency is found
tomorrow will not come because
everything is here and now
this moment expands as far as the eye can see
and then some
firewood burning inside my eyes
charring my iris
until the blue turns to orange
and the icy barren air fills my lungs
I am a wasteland

Day I lost myself—
Shining world found in one place,
First embrace of her.

She came into this world
By accident.
Never planned,
But her parents
Didn’t regret a thing.

She grew up with
Her hands stretched out,
Hungry for knowledge
And taking in
Everything she
Could reach.

She was only 9 years old,
When she saw both her parents
Screaming at each other.
She didn’t understand,
“Why are mummy and
Daddy fighting?”
She asked as tears
Started to fall from
Her eyes to her
Delicate skin.
Her parents sighed as
They knew it wasn’t
Working out.
Things were crashing down.

She was only 10 years old
When her daddy left her.
As he carried his bags
Out the door,
She cried,
“Where are you going, daddy?”
He left, without a word.

She grew up,
Without love.
She grew up,
Believing  that
Love is the problem.

She never trusted love.
She never wanted love.
She never needed love.

She was only 13
When she took
Her first puff
Of cigarette.
She was hoping
That her misery
Would fade away,
Just like the smoke.

She was only 15
When she was suicidal.
Nobody knew about
Her struggles.
Nobody knew
She cried herself
To sleep, wishing everything
Was different and simple.
Her wrist was like
Her own canvas,
Covered with scars,
New and old.

She was drowning,
In her miseries.
All she wanted
Was someone to save her,
Or least teach her
How to swim,
But no one did.

She was drowning,
As she watched
People around her
Minding their own lives.

Till this day,
She’s still
Drowning,
Still
Struggling.

And no one
Cares enough
To save her.

All the valleys, green, rumpled
And cresting in their April dress
And all the creatures who live under,
They wade and stroke and dive,
I live high above in my light house,
Watching the ocean waves.

I must not gaze at them although
Your eyes are dawning day;
I must not watch you as you go
Your sun-illumined way;

I hear but I must never heed
The fascinating note,
Which, fluting like a river reed,
Comes from your trembing throat;

I must not see upon your face
Love's softly glowing spark;
For there's the barrier of race,
You're fair and I am dark.

Imagine if old journals could talk,
The chaos they would provoke.
Old pages revealing to old lovers
All the bottled feelings and unspoken words
You never had the guts to say.
Imagine them telling the darkest secrets
You trusted to those pages
And sharing the spelling mistakes you made
In that poem you wrote and you thought
It was so dumb and no one would read.
I just say,
Don't trust old journals.
The old and wrinkled pages are indeed astute.