The truth is, I am not much at all
I love the light refracted
Through the hanging glass.
The avocado plant
Dancing on the windowsill,
The mustard walls.

The tension in my shoulders,
I love that too.
The mahogany table,
Him at the piano.

I reflect it all
I am a node where all this meets.
Little piano tones
Little knots in the stomach.

No regret , no descent of gloomy drop from eyes and no pain in heart for falling for a man dressed in courage.

No shivering in hands for emptying all those love poetries into trash which unknowingly embraced a spineless in the ****.

Flowers of love and trust , though , trampled but I am still a flower who is yet to be wilted !

Somewhere out there in the  imagination:

Roams a smiling fool many called Rose
Who was too fond of living to believe any
of their heavy words carelessly thrown    .

Spending his years traveling through
collected winds and holicly written
predicates onto bank receipt papers        .

Who didn’t need a heritage or a name
to remember to live again among
The scattered rushes and highways        .

and only the trees understood him
And his undying need to grow shapes
and shadows from nothing                        .  

Somewhere out there in the dozens of
breaking lilacs that speak in silence    
lives a smiling fool called Rose               .

In the middle of the windstorm
You didn't hear the roar
That thundered out across the sky

In the middle of the windstorm
You didn't see the fire
That spewed forth upon the ground

In the middle of the windstorm
You didn't feel yourself burn
Caught in the eye of the inferno

As the world incinerates to ash
Know the seeds you planted
May finally have the warmth to grow