Long sedative ride,
Harrowingly sweet.
It hurts me so,
To watch you grow;
To see you go

On for an adventure!
Some unknown venture
Into a future
Beyond iridescent curtains,
Where we are no longer certain.

Leaving these petals in the dust ー
My love, I have come to rust!
In a withering web, I've been cast;
I stand to fend off
A journey reaching its end.

As I eye your certainty:
A longing to be free.
I alone should bear this hefty fee
If my beloved would come to be!

And I will remain ー Not belonging, but still

Longing.

Falling for a writer is a venture
Whose destination is so indeterminate , as to travel the infinity and beyond to only realise you haven't moved an inch , also to have been still and been carried to around to eternity !
As baffling my words sounds so is the very thought of falling for a writer!

They could read in between the lines yet sometimes fail to see the perceptable words in those lines,

The little things they notice are like the million piece puzzle of the alluring picture they paint!
Only to discern how much it would break them to realize a piece is missing from picture!

We don't fall for them we live through them
Most of us as a chapter in their book
Only a few to have been the witness to their exhibit!!

Don't fall for a writer as it's a venture to the unknown

a tropher found Grau
and everywhere lay his fawn
while love's artifice dig chéri
and orient this earth that desire weather

and while out on the horizon he'll dust the farm
but still pond a sparrow 'bout to splatter its bath
in a morning of lust that soon will burn off

with an intent lasting sheen
fore the hour drive to town
as his roads are the ride
amid this country has made her shine
that always ponder the air on such afternoons
only to purchase a bottle of her perfume
then pleasantly he'll puncture the throttle
with a just look in her garden.

To venture into     darkness is frightful
but I know that that      is where light is born.

Something bigger than I am,
those shoulders over mine
and faster than I can be,
cannibalizing time,
it's not sad,
I'm not sad...

Someway it's worth one's while
seizing bubbles from reverie
and in between no crime,
starving now and then
I'm not dying,
it's not dying

What comes by nature grows,
poignant embrace to abide by.
To sharpen up a stem to a lilac rose
leaves bewildered but crucially alive
it's just my thought...
I'm just in a thought

But first I am
real and here
on my own to venture onward.

a winding pathway
leads to where i dare not roam
still i venture on

Falling into the jangce jang
We sing with a clear
voice

Pass me the passport
Sail on the roads
Of perpetual
Drum

Dream of baobabs
Dream of saharas
Levitations

Crush as snake eggs
Thou lamentations

Make me a poet
Surpass me as teardrops
Mingle in every waterfall

Augure my autumn
Argonaut my silken
Wool crave me as a mad
Hatter

Call me a beauty
I'll be your beast

Time machine roared for a minute...     Future was nearing

with outrageously high

speeded velocity     Surpassing The Bitter Past    &   Collapsing back

In itself !    Surplus      Evaporating Events      have soared above the

mundane Blue Planet

Glistening, tiny, roundabout vessels         have vanished silently, into the

wide open cracks internal to            Ethereal MotherBoard Memory

of         The MainBrain.         Truly Our Vision Focused on the
upcoming Horizon of Hope                                Saw no Evil no More

In need to feel
more than mere
words poets press
continue reading...

My Poems here
are a common
red blood bind
horizon heeding
from blank to grey.

Tips are starlit as
the most bold ink-lined
beautiful formation
of space & time.
   Seems
bizzare, un-limited
falsificated classical
old blue ink evaporated
with digital evolution.

 Not aware of its-elf ~ existence
is sinking deep into my
tactile fingerprint cushions
    Once I see guidelines  
there's no hook to be
made out of necessity.
I add and add ad
infinutum and all
I see is Home.

Mei Mei wears the same,
“Signature,” every week,
Silk atop a smell soiled – Mao,
Burnt wood boiling frogs,
And a mother crying alongside
Ditch;
Ancient and ever’ed, leather
Peddling vegetables,
Not so many sold,
And atop something slight,
Thinner than rice whittled wrists,
Her red-printed tender
Intended daughter, “away,”
Under pink bow tie
And dreams wrought a village’s
Wheat and desires ancient –
All they’d offer progeny.

Mei Mei’d been born
And Mei Mei’d be gone;
All a grin, all a stage,
Come left, those who’d know last,
Stone tiers tethered past,
And right,
Others that’d someday follow;
She’d only be the first to leave.
And sure, she’d been frightened,
And sure, she’d been homesick,
With phone, “home,” ‘ever palmed,
And dreams ‘ever determined.
She’d shiver leg, wax poetry
Big cities, and boys so that
Dreamt be dealt,
Demise, be ******, and
“Mei Mei’d,” take on the world!

*Note - Inspired by a wonderful student of mine who graduated but days ago; grab the world by the horns, girl! You've inspired me, that's for sure!