The Poet

The song comes from inside the garden-there are few roses left. In this collection of words, I craft vignettes of self. I become you in the shadow of your hope.

Milk and honey flow beyond the gates of heaven Why, if not to live?

Somewhere I find it Somewhere it goes

Unfold my desire keep it in your pocket

When I wake up will I remember me?

Nobody sees me I see nobody

Grey clouds and pulling seams and danger danger in me

A loss of self overcomes me. In the morning and in the evening. Loss. Loss. A loss like death. Or a death like loss. A loss which hides in the shadows of my rose garden. One loss and many roses. I see only the flowers. And this loss tastes like honey on my tongue. Bitter…

I tear like the golden rope which ties us together

A loss of self in two puddles of the same rain

A sun dances somewhere making gold shadows honey, honey do not sit

Two black eyes sitting away from here -how not to be vain?

Some hold their hands under sacred water While their faces bleed

How music tastes when I press my tounge against it and breathe in the mist

To learn the culture Listen

Must I be bare in fulfilling my need of being seen?

Peel away bark of a tree and it stands still, taller

I breathe in the light Before lines and shapes and hues Therefore, I am gone

Fog conceals the sun If only for a moment

Poetry wraps around me. Surrender. Arms and legs and face falling. I am in love with the nothingness-everywhere.