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They only come when I'm exhausted
Existing until I blink
and when I try to bring one out
It makes my stomach sick
She licked her cigarettes
with lips rubbed red from
too much loving
charcoal eyes were lit on fire
and the ashes fell back to the ground
mixed in the offspring of
erosion
lost in the ****
A soul turned to nothing
but she became

*free.
 Dec 2015 Ronald D Lanor
Lynx Ng
I am as a leaf in the river
flowing down tributaries
dew drops are my sweat and tears
winds billow and brush against me
while waters swirl beneath

whether I was in turbulence
or dancing wild
was my choice

I see it only now

as I traverse the waters
I meet many others
each with their own paths
own pasts
own histories
own stories

was it me who crossed their paths
or them mine?
who amongst leaves, you and I
could judge, or would say,
“that is a life well-lived”
when we are ceaselessly
ushered current upon currents

out

to the great beyond
An egg, boiled fresh
a matryeshka doll watches
                                                     somewhere the last train
                                                     makes it's way down the tracks
past the lakes
& the reticent pine trees

                                                          ­            the street lamps
                                                           ­           shine wearily

                                                        ­                                        & again, the rain
                                                            ­                         is starting up once more
she reads Kurt Tucholsky
' Schloss Gripsholm' with a dictionary

                                                     ­                     writing down his odd words  
                                                                ­       daintily as if they were glass,  
not to be handled
except lightly                                                          ­          the city holds her
                                                             ­                              like a child
Kurt Tucholsky was a German writer, mostly known for writing in the Berlin dialect.
the thunder of
a small bird.

a poem grows shadows
and moonscapes,

the moon,
withered sapphires,
undone,
her open windows
a thread of bright
light.
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