Rarity generally sets the price
Then how would you assay
The cost of life

We can't see any more of it
From this rock on which we sit

At least not now
And maybe never
So the valuation
To the earth is tethered

Do we figure the ones
Once here now gone
Or just those
Among us in the throng

Do all pay the same
For their go at this game
Does it depend on what you got
Out of it
Do the winners pay more
Or the losers forestall
Any invoice coming their way
But you pay with your time
Taken back at the end of your line
So your bill is already paid.

Resting in the rift
of January’s frozen stillness,
where ephemeral light
breaks through the rooftop's
halogenic heart strings.
Above me,
the gray-streaked
shyness of the treetops,
and my feet drift through
the fragile maze of asphalted
spring crops.
From afar, clausthrophobic crowds
press on
toward a remnant of living transience,
stretched across a pale blue ground,
fluttering jade-green,
the bleak expression of the working man's transgressing weariness.
And where I still went to school today,
fatigue
lingers on.
And where I still went to function for society
fatigue
carries on.

© fey (25/01/25)

with a stiletto, the **** of her
jokes. And like her cigarette, smashed
into the ground. In a flash, turned to ash
from her smoky breath. Crushed like

a plum tomato in the sauce. I learned
quickly she was boss. Crushed like ice in
her drink, slivers of the rock I was. Melting
in a frosty mug. Like a tin can she

ran over me with an electric mower that had
teeth. I was dented with sharp edges, thrown into
the neighbor's hedges. Like an old car piled high
in the junk yard. Folded up like an accordion

after years of Freudian therapy. My Dreams,
crushed rose petals and scattered  like leaves
in the potpourri. Stuffed inside a bedroom
drawer, lost between the underwear and socks.

Is the cartography of the soul
Where shadows dance and darkness unfolds
It's is the language of the unseen
A whispered dialogue between the heart and the dream

Like an archaeologist of the inner world
It uncovers the artifacts of the unfurled
A tapestry of emotions, intricate and worn
A testament to the human condition, forever torn

Silence, poetry is the sound
Of the heartbeat, the pulse, the rhythm unbound
A symphony of contradictions, a harmony of pain
A celebration of the beauty that remains

Like a mystic, it seeks the unknown
A union with the divine, a oneness with the tone
Of the universe, a vibration that echoes through eternity
A whispered promise of transcendence, a glimpse of infinity