She has no mirror
but where flirt the leaves with the pond
she comes in the cool of noon
mixing the dark of her hair
with the summer shade
dipping into glass green water
her toes and far above
and all the pond sees
encrypts within the bubbles of rainbow
that only her clothes
swelled in awe
can read.

Somewhere between
Disorder and Longing,
Lives a man that collects flowers.

From near and far,
He ventures toward
A reclusive beauty that
Floods fields
Of happiness,
And paints yellow skies.

Seasons change,
Petals fall,
But his passion fuels
A fire dimming
Within his chest.

The nostalgia
In his eyes
Parallel a love
That is fleeting.

An emptiness,
That can only be
Filled with flowers
He once found
Within her heart.

It makes me wonder,
How I could envy
The soul destructive enough
To fill this vessel
Of sadness.

As seasons pass,
He saves them
For a spirit that
Ceases to return.

But I remain absent,
Because he is saving
Flowers for the dead

And I am only living.

Because he will
Always wait for
A muse

Unworthy of flowers.