she walks prospect avenue in the rain.
dead eyes, sore feet
the flowers have wilted into
the shadows of acceptance.

she finds the corner
and the last light lit,
wants a match for her cigarette.

a ****** that has found her god.
a needle and a bed of thorns.


the beep from a car's horn,
so a customer waits,
swings open a rusty gate.

and when that door

slams

shut

the prisoner of light asks,

"where have all the flowers gone?

she was not much
younger than me

but she so easily believed

growing up in a world
that did not deceive

the words around her
were soft like angels

seeds of life that
nourished her

shining stars that
would guide her
to truth

I was darker than that

words in my world
were twisted little
creatures

small poison pills
given to me
to be swallowed whole

but I swallowed them
just once

I only let them
spread through me
once

I only let them
make me sick once

the next time
they were given to me

I crushed them
into dust

placed them in
an urn on my shelf

so they could never
be spoken again

she was not much
younger than me

but we lived in
different worlds

Traveling through the woods,
I count one,
I count ten,
I count thousands,
they are the same, yet
they all are different.

Like an artist who
spends a year crafting
a masterpiece of colorful imagery
the picture is gone too soon
all to be carpeted back to earth.

Proud as they are
they will soon come back
in hue, no hue or varied hues
and yet looking mighty and pretty.

Happy as we are
there is always something new to
shed your inhibitions and make anew, and
become your new you;
hue or no hue
It will still be pretty.