I want to
write your name
in the sky,
but the wind
blows the cloud
and pours me the rain,
so I think
your name
will be erased
again.

It is good to be in this place
in this time
the plants awakening to the light
the soft music
easing into my soul
the candle flickering
the air and me
cool and still
in this now.

wake up, he'd said, she
remembered,
in a dream,
awakening reality,
and herself within it,
and the feeling lingered,
all morning
she saw through the translucent
world, as slowly opaqueness
returned, in the afternoon,
falling asleep,
again

knocks
at your door
do you let it in
to take a seat
telling it to wipe its feet
or do you leave it outside
in the cold rain

When silence
bowls
you over
do you scream in its face
and chase it as a child
running with a net to catch
a butterfly
or do you leave it there
to die

When silence
bites
your tongue
do you swallow the blood
of a million things
that flood your head
or lay it out
as the quilt
on your grandma's bed

When I catch a bird's eye view
A city from above at night
Thousands of buildings
Millions of windows
Windows lit up
Where there is light
There is also life
In a sea of people
The most dreaded disease
Remains loneliness

I often wonder if it's the painting
Which is realistic or...
It's the sky which is artistic....