June flowers again as a caterpillar crawls upon the cards of condolence.  This transformation is a kickflip hidden within a butterfly wing.

Earth is gathered and offered again.  Grandfathers' home the empty shell.  His clutter decluttered, her signature removed.  

The final supper, a cell phone speaks in secret codes, bourbons are broken in two, with the jigsaw complete their sky is blue.

Glasses full of laughter, we drink them all.  A thousand dollars will secure the deal.  A headstone holds their story.  Together they are reunited.

these cotton sheets no longer wear your name like it's their favorite cologne, but the room surrounding this prison of a bed has yet to be decluttered of you

faded purple flowers sit in a vase on my desk, they've been there since my last good memory of you, back when you said you loved me too

a promise ring that no longer lives on my left hand, buried deep in the back of my jewelry box bound to be forgotten and stumbled upon years from now, when memories of you will make me smile instead of cry

and there's a box in the corner of the room with ******* letters on the side spelling out your name. inside sits the sweatshirt you gave me years before, headphones and a cd, pictures, tokens of our memories. folded nearly on top is a letter written to you, telling you that i'm still madly in love with you and your forest eyes, telling you that i don't think my heart will ever forget the man who brought it to life. on the backside of that letter is a poem asking why you ever came back if it was her the entire time

our paths diverged for a while.
experiences and wisdom made their marks 
weaved themselves into our history. 
self reflection and maturity 
decluttered the space that we now inhabit.

when our paths converged again,
I was reeling from the impact.
my eyes and heart voraciously
immersed themselves in who he had become. 
the smallest details were of the most interest.

the convergence added to our foundation. 
the shared experience was sewn 
somewhere in the tapestry of our lives.
the bright red thread of our meeting
will always catch my eye.

This route I ply frequent,
I could envision it in a trance;
Shiny thorns ravel buds before they are ready to be plucked
Creeping plants grow close to the ground with their horizontal vines
Ladybugs flee so little; resting on colored bright petals
Seasons of disregarded mindfulness had built it into an unattractive **** fest
Yet I loved to commute along this path, it called the rarest breeds

Today I noticed a different kind of rose, It hid from the mess, but it’s modesty was noticeable
It varied from the lot I had daily seen; almost as if it flung out of another hemisphere
It had gleaming petals all around and goldfinches sang melodies to its grace
When the sun licked the ground, it cushioned it and smiled with pride
At the sun’s slumber, crystal lights from the heavens glistened it
Here, I saw my beautiful course through new lens
The thorns no longer stifled the beautiful roses and the pathways had been decluttered for new passage

It’s all I searched for on my strolls, the clumsy atmosphere had me pay it no attention
My habitual walk tuned me to visualizing this stretch
without knowing, I nearly missed a chance to notice a flowering anomaly
but today I slowed my pace and looked at it all through the eyes of my blossomed rose

O.Allyne

Fifty years from now, I may not be the person whom I thought I would be
I may not have served the job I dreamed of having
I may not be living in a house I dreamed of building
I may not be married with the person I am in love with right now
I may not have made peace with the past

But fifty years from now,
I hope,
I have decluttered my mind
I may be old but I will be beautiful
I may not have reached my dreams
But I will remember the moment I wrote this -
I am young and dreaming
I may have let my younger self down
But somehow I know now what my younger self had not known
I may not have traveled the world
But my eyes have seen what my younger self had not yet seen

Fifty years from now, I may not be as alive as I thought I would be
I may be under the ground with a dirge or requiem
Maybe two or three people crying or maybe none
But as that time comes,
May I never forget
That fifty years ago,
I have fought with my whole life.