Dead flowers are brittle, break
easy.
Dust covers the things you gave me,
mutes them, claims them, overtakes
them, squeezing the pages of books
together until they choke,
clouding the glass jar that you use
as a vase for the dead flowers.

Dead flowers do not need water, live
easy.
You made
the bed this morning
so if memory failed me
I would have no way of seeing today
that you were here last night.
And when I blink my eyes,
for that moment they're closed
I cringe with the sudden goodbye,
every instant turned away from your face
filled with the graceless empty
of having just finished a book.
No longer able to live in its eyes,
burrow into its spine, nestle
into the crook
of its neck.

dead flowers are brittle, break easy,
please, please be careful
with this–

I feel like I'm on a fast moving river

Sometimes I row hard and try to steer

Sometimes I just let the current take me where it will

Sometimes I feel lost

Sometimes I duck the low hanging branches

Sometimes the river widens and the current calms and I can rest

Sometimes the river narrows and the whitewater throws me into the boulders

It is in the turbulent waters that I am tested and my skills are sharpened

Always I try to appreciate the journey and the breathtaking views

I know around every bend, a new challenge awaits

Never knowing around which bend lies the non-corporeal sea of dreams

No more branches, no more bends, and no more boulders

Only calm waters, gentle breezes, and smooth sailing

When I was young I used to dream
Of all in life that I could be
From astronauts to presidents
And all things in between
There wasn't a single thing
That I did not dream

The middle years soon came along
Taking me to task and then to town
I lost sight of what I might
Could have been and could have done
When the middle years
Haphazardly came along

And now I hear them say
I'm as old as I am gray
The life I had no longer has my back
As time gave those years away
Along with those youthful dreams
Now that I am old and gray

There are one hundred and twenty six tiles on my ceiling
If you count all the halves.
I know because sleeping is what normal people do in their bedroom
and normal is not my favorite descriptive word.
Why say you're normal when you could be
fabulous,
magnificent,
tenacious,
or incorrigible?
But why would I ask you?
It's obvious you don't know the rules of the game
because why would you say you love me
when you don’t?
Is it because my halves
don’t add up to perfect tiles?
I know I have a few cracks,
some warped edges,
and missing chunks,
But my imperfections tell a story;
I won’t hide behind flat spackle.
Besides,
I always thought my ceiling
could use a few stains.

The warrior:

Holster the sabre,
Put away the armour,
Turn away and leave, never to return,
The end has come, you are yet to learn.

The warrior of old, once pious and celebrated,
Life’s sword failed where destiny’s beautiful eyes penetrated,
The lone wanderer, now reduced by love’s glance,
If only he was strong enough to seize the opportunity, the chance.

The perils of the deserts sun and winters chilling air,
Could not affect him, he was safeguarded from all despair,
Until he entered the house of his assassin,
Overwhelmed by the beauty and intellect of the one he was pursuing.

Now he must hang up his arsenal, he lowers his head in shame,
He has realised his defeat to destiny,
Broken,
He carries but a memory and a name.