tethered to a string
it flies,
ever free
into the early hours of dusk.
the blue and purple triangles
merging as one.  

the times of what has passed,
stolen sweets and mirthful eyes
crinkle in the sunlight.
mindless chatter fills the abyss
as the torrent sea laps at the feet
of the storyteller and the lamb.

little boy, alight with glee
turns to his father
but there,
encompassing the boundless expanse
on the empty field,
not a flower sways.

the sea once turbulent, whispers in his wake.

Solitude is a beautiful companion.
It nevers asks you
to be something you're not.

Fear is a stingy businessman
who will sell you a plot
for your loved ones, little angels
for your children, copper coins
for their eyes while at night
a million thoughts will appear
at your window clear as day
like someone with a lamp
a sack, a clock and a map
in the darkness black as a bat
a boot, a cap with the insignia
of dreams that die in the palms
of your hands like a wound
that won’t heal and turns green
like a fish, like jade, wet moss
growing on stones above graves.

He dug his fingers into
my colors,
searching for himself.
Carving my insides into something
beautiful.
Writing his words
across my skin
making a book out of me.
He took the flowers out of
my garden,
and planted weeds.
He took me apart and hung me
on the wall
and called it
priceless.

Himalayan projection screen,

undulant sea tones brushed by

silken zephyrs.

devoted parameters of mind,

stroked wide open by jasmine.

a yogi's hands coming together

at the chest, at the forehead, over

the crown.

Ganga fore-tears in tumults of white,

precisely when she was given to flow.

Shakti pregnant with afterglow,

lifegiving--unbroken in labor.