It bewilders me, when
I follow you. Why the savaged
retribution starts for a
separate mouth?

I may become little
demanding, sending you a
death watch for tender memories.
Why did we meet for different truths,
to fork out, not pardoned
by anchorage of our spriritual pursuits?

At early dawn, a sad
cuckoo gives a long, lingering call;
desperately evoking the
soft bleeds of beautiful past.

Your profile was very
sharp, aquiline instinct, to
smell a lover.

October is here. Intuition
develops a sixth sense.
You don't want to leave the nest.