Small, wet, and
Buried
Trying hard to remember
I am a seed
Buried is where I need
To be

Marvelous looks the way
same route though everyday
amid leaves' rustles
and street hustles
walking jogging running
merrily with the nimble steps
skimming on winds
in an imaginary land
soft little fingers
slipping in and out
of the age worn hand.

Ten minutes to ten minutes fro
changes the landscape though
stiff barren dull sad heavy.

The trudge back
along the insipid land
with no hands to hold.

The landscape holds nothing..
it's all in the mind.

Someone told him
"If it's meant to be, set her free. She'll come back to you"
So he waited.

Someone told her
"If it was meant to be, he'd never have let go"
So she moved on.

piers , numbers , lights
C train soundtracks
disco biscuits
just trying to stay alive
just trying to revive

Here comes the rain
Here comes the pain
Here comes the slo motion catastrophe
that limps , lames , stains the woodwork
of the floor
. . . no more .

This body is the
Flower of the Soul,
Critical Mass desirous
Of Being.

No shame in the Flower,
Full blooming or
Fading,
Petals droop, running to
Seed.

The End comes swiftly,
Nitrogen gravitates to
Tuber.

O Flowering Soul,
Dead and Alive-
Your Beauty fumes as
Spirit to Sky

I am He.
You, She.
We are moored
Inexplicably.

I bide.