i am about to be nothing.
on the cusp of a wisp
i am dis-jewelled
and the farthing in my hand
is a clip of my purchase.
to destroy is to be a manling.
i come from dust
and this is the love
that has no name
but claims the cinch of my wrist
'round the throat
of my tulips.

again....

i am made to unmake.
i claw at the virtue of my truth
only to suffer
the cavernous ploy
of my wishful thinking.

you are the sun
that spoke my name
and said "why? "

i am the smoke
in an otherwise
sterile balloon.