sadness

Thought it was you

         The cause for my sadness

Your walking away that is.

         

This evening

With a little poetry

         In the undertones 

It is not you. 

        It is the loss of a time before you.

Of my collection of withered flowers

       Between leaves of sepia pages

The tenderness of my evening dreaminess

      And the radio playing to the stars

In my solitude, and languorous walks

With the mongrels following me

My music and my hidden diaries

My sadness is my loss of myself.

The old hair pin worked on that rusted lock.

The crack

Soaked with my colourless blood

It Refuses

To flow out.

Cannot dry

The marinade soaks the mutton in languorous pleasure
Hiding her from  the heat that will be

As the onion exults in her brown fragrance
Entwined in a polygamous union of
Cinnamon, cloves, fennel and ginger

the thought of how it will be
Or what it will become
Overwhelms.

The slow heat may just tell

Patchwork

Seamstress Wanted. 
  Expertise in Frankensteins
    Rag dolls 
      Quilts
Maybe carpets
  Silk shawls
Signed...
            Esteem

Possessed,
She toggles between
real and real
Memories of a fire continue to ravage melting old veins

Benevolent deep eyes
baring my tattered inside
Through the sheer.

Journeys inside the deepest mountains
Arduous lone sojourns
That a starry eyed
Child absorbs in awe, of this king

The stories leave a tightly shut casket
In a mist of deep blue
engulfs
Shocking her innocence
Seductively
What is to be lost
But the torn insides
Of a soul falling between  desert sand

Written somewhere in 2013

Talk, say, belong
its like walking forward
and retracing aimlessly
if i looked up, the vastness could engulf me
and i will lose what looking down
at my footprints will give me.
i play games with my mind
if this, then that, and then there
if there why not, why so...