Don't hang on the balloon
Keep to the thread it is tied to

Spilt black ink
covers the pages
blocking stylized
letters
recorded
underneath

Trying to
remember
my best
while I sit here
writing
when I'm
missing you
to
death

I don't believe its
coincidence
when we dance
our eyes
are perfectly
aligned

And when
we kiss,
our lips
lock
like two
elegant
puzzle pieces

I planted my garden
In straight spaced rows;
Under the scrutiny
Of  thieving grey squirrels,
But I fooled them, I think,
With my ribbons and bows:
Pink, red, green and yellow,
I hope no one tells 'em,
For I surely won't sell them,
These tatters, tomatos and carrots,
Beets, near lettuce and onions,
And kale, beans and turnip:
All because squirrels
Have been tricked,  
Yet they'll turn up.

Be there nothing in that sky of yours,
That of your own making,
No colour, matter, wind nor force.
Just emptiness beyond that battered cliff,
Beaten by the sea from one,
With kites and creams to the other.
Such contrasting torment of ‘could but isn’t’,
As the black, crimson sky bleeds over;
Yet is still a waste expanse,
For black or crimson, kites or birds,
Wind or wonder, nothing’s heard.
Where loneliness haunts itself,
Imbued with its own solitary ambience,
Which companioning heart beats would dilute.
Opacity equates to naught.

The beautiful nature, the extensive land
laid on acres and acres of a misruled calm
An outward reservation of well kept grounds

Children play as they skid on grassy slopes
They open their jaws and laugh about a morrow
A joy they spread is tangible but not superficial.

The little ones have no worry of the world
They jump, fool around and have fun
A circle of embracive moments spread in currents

The babes lit the day and in the night they slumber
Even their brightness resonates the ray of the sun above them
They leap and grow older as the time progresses.

How will they ever know what awaits?
Mine childhood was a ball of imagination and curiosity
A thirst to dig, fall, progress and sink in the depths of an abyss