For Santiago,
we danced with toros
and we gleefully played with fire.
We fought for our turns
with passion
before the sparks expired.

In each turn
we spun our bodies
like those bamboo wheels
of fire.
We set our souls aflame
and burned down our desires.

Dare the dainty
All in eaves, a dance of we've
Sour regards for a knowing heed, the eclectic key
Wavering in the air, to tell a story of finality

Salt, dust and whatever else
Rhymes with damnation, the tows of veracity
Become like lucky butterflies, the solution in bells
To worth and occur, with a certain mighty...

Sounds of music, to die for
Through the hollow of sunshine we find so warm
The completion of a single thought for avidity, so sore
Has the curiosity of chances, and the decency, only more

Should we shoulder a pathetic distance, from the nerve?
Or is causes guidance, to a realm of liberty ensconced
We woke, and walked to the notion adding, a due friend
With seasons of come, to light the way to sits, of around...

About now
The tale has become ours for a looking have, and the moment gave
Mirrors, seldom fears and a host to what nears
The romance of aptness, for a circle of deem, that has it to save...

When spring arrives, it touches nature’s heart, and awakens it into a new life
Trees are blossoming
Beautiful Lilly flowers are blooming
Fields are dressed in a green garment
Blue butterflies are flying
Bees are buzzing
Baby bunnies are playing
Birds are chirping in backyards
Water springs are bursting
Water waves are dancing
Nature is burning love

I wonder, if we as human being could bring out the best in us, and show the whole world our inner beauty by the touch of spring?

Hussein Dekmak

~
"Leave the lights off and on,
I feel mysterious tonight,"
she says.

"Every time you look different,"
replies her careful ecstasy.

Practice makes perfect,
and from chaos comes 💋 (kissing).
She floats free from
her own body's outer reaches:
The mirrorball and the mystic circle.
The mirrorball is a light
for attracting attention.
The mystic circle
is an unsustainable trance.

"Will I dream during the process?" she asks.

"Only if you know the wild that wants you," chants the infinite unsayable yes.
~

Tomes of advice
Let alive, in the room of cares
Vehemence, instinct, attuned sighs
Where the powers that be, continue until fared

Are we the ears of purpose?
Set in sides and meandering light
The skill of another, to share the insight of us
Should we enable a dance, of redoubt for might?

My door of adding, as avarice is...
The truth in long glances, with method to move
Thought, the biding hope of when is, bliss
The turn of completeness, the coping hour we have of use?

Lose me in the fold...
The tooth I invoke, is a creation of voice and tone, to total
A resolve of guidance, of kind come for wishes to hold
The grace of unity, if not unique sense, before legend falls

To reproof...
Time in its steady march to liberty, the devotion of fashion
Though a tarter end to hindsight, may be aloof
We confirm the date of simple alacrity, a host of could lasting...

Be the love, of a lifetime...
Of causes redeemed by a curious share
In the superiority of life, to know a callous friendship worth trying
And the impress of duress, driven to cares we ne'er guarantee...?

Unless the cold turn of truth, is towards waiting love
Done distress, marveling need, the common remark of persuasion
In the name of urges, we attest to passions, we grant another covenant
The decision of a soul to keep, knowing a handheld in something besides here's intrusion

All
A day's lot in the careful wishes we seek, for a nary come dwell
Rhapsody, in a courage's stance, the times to live and know a call
To harmony, the burden of thee, assumes patience is ours to tell...

Makes me want to move my head back
and sing like I'm dancing with the notes
its sad melody no longer means
looking back
and beckoning
change.

It's melancholy
is only:
a beautiful pain
I would rather have within me
than be without.

It flows;
like its story is endless
from a childhood book
where the trees talk
in the woods.

Like a waterfall
to a beauty
frightening
ever lasting...

A Beautiful and A Bitter Shroud

When I was little, I found a magic box,
tucked under the eaves where
we were told not to go.
Something compelling about the
forbidden, triangular space,
sealed off by lath and plaster,
made me resolved, beyond curious.
I kicked and pulled until plaster shattered
and wood cracked, delightfully.
The large box was filled
with silk, organza and tulle,
the proud-worn gowns
of my mother's college days.
At those ***** she danced
in them, hair coiled up
and earrings sparkling.
It was not about the men, I knew,
but her need to be admired.
I don't recall a punishment
for opening the box
but she relented and allowed
my sister and I to put on
her finery and pretend.
We wrapped them round us
and twirled to imaginary waltzes,
stepping on long hems so many times
that  the gowns all came undone.
The rags were put away
and the room sealed up.
In my youth I recall but a few
times Mother gave in
and let us be children
or fairy princesses for a while.
Now she is old and finally
trying to wrap me in her shroud,
to make resentment drag me down
and envy of me, crippled with self-hate.
But that no longer works
and I tell her, finally grown
that this is not allowed.
I summon up pity and vague sympathy,
even if love left long ago.
I tell myself that
everyone dies alone.