read my poems upon death
and that's where I'll be.
searching for light
through
sanctifiying flames.
and just when I'm going,
I'll be guided by my mother's
merciful grace.

the wound the wound,
yes, the wound.
it is still there
for it has not
yet healed to
a scar.

In May, may we ?
Don't say nothing- no,
don't say no.
Do you know you are the one that I
would write for ? So there
in May, may I ? So I may have every of my page have your name ?
For I feel this consent,
yes- I do. so please, don't say no-
for then I may not,
even when I can;
and maybe even
when we should.

if you feel not in control-

you are the paintbrush and
the world is the canvas in
which you paint.
with words, with actions
with thoughts, with everything.
if I am the paintbrush,
then who or what is the artist
painting ?
is it me ?
is it you ?
is it us ?
could it be everyone ?
do I allow you to use me ?
to write what it is
the audience so pleases ?
and are we all paintbrushes ?
and, if so, is each to a collection
of which is the art ?

where is the source of your ink ?
for a pen is like a brush.
and what pictures are drawn from it ?

and how do you love ?
is it so openly a suggestion
you breath it out like air ?
you breath it in like perfume ?

well, the woods are starting to burn again,
and I can not deny that it smells fantastic.

I feel she's letting go,
I'm still a part of her drift.
she's been watching and
hoping for me-
another angel of my guard;
she will find me in someone
else lovely,
and he will
be her
reminder.

hold me in your arms-
as tender if we were
to leave tomorrow evening.
for i want to know the future,
but we always die so
suddenly.
please understand,
you deserve it just as
well.
find me;
where I am
within any other.