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.

The man I am and

The one I should have been

Often meet

At a broken mirror.

Light hangs on a cloud
like the shy glance of John Wayne,
and wings that fly.
It came to my mind
in a flash and then was gone,
but the world changed.
Four crows were flying west.
Sunlight reflected off one crow’s wing.
The flash came and went.
I didn’t see the earth turning.
But it did.

John Hayes

let me show you what a shadow feels like.

blank, dark, unnoticed.

i am my own shadow, in the light.

I forgot how it felt like,
Yet today I heard a cry
An old echo of my heart
and I remember, remembering
how it felt to be her.
I am savouring this feeling,
that she has given me.