Blooms and Dies

Carrying your truth is benign,
a flower it was, until into houses,
through unwelcoming doors and shut windows
you start throwing them,
to get in.

Oblivious that flower could rot…
It blooms and dies and pollens
and it dies, inside the shelters not yours.

But a truth can be a venom,
a tear, a wet sunshine, a word undescribeable.

Just because all worlds are created in anger, it does not mean everything must blast they way you want it

In your garden, can’t you see?
Soldiers and seamstresses and prayers and sinners,
marching side by side,
as they generalize
they ostracize

Sorting flower by flower
until left one color,
it leaves.

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Where is Never?

Can you tell me a story?

About love that never ends,
a battle where everyone wins, a struggle that never loses
two hearts that never change?

Or about us that never grows apart
Can you tell me a promise?¬†That I’ll never lose you and,
you, me.

About lie that never happens, about truth that never pains,
something that tells how we’ll never suffer.

About tears that never shed and,
smiles that never fade

A truth-like story, about stars that shine but not dead
About happy endings without any twisted plots

It stays happy, never has a sad turn.
Where is it? I’ll listen.

Written in 20 June 2016
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Roasted Fame

Rancor is but a kind warning,
A flourished flame, a troubled sangfroid.
Comes fast,
but lasts it become.

A little souvenir,
Bought with two blinks,
and a beaten eye.
Decorated in laces pink with tragedy.

But a warning,
Comes abreast,
Is never enough.
For roasted fame.

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Yellow Memory

It was days before I stopped listening
to anything with colors.
It was not black. It was transparent.
And yellow it was.
Ostracized by the pallete.

Strange.
This universe, to have the hollow hearts.
To find someone so perfect,
and forgetting the universe.
And it hollows the heart.

Can we not say the word?
I bet on it. I knew the answer but,
I asked the table,
“Where’s my glass?”

But to be there.
Cheers for the mean ending.
Is a mix of green and red.
I see it from time to time.
These memories in vague colors of vividity.

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Heavy Clouds

In a sequence of sky full of nights,
part of wet and blue arrangements.
Angels were let at each other’s wings,
the feathers blue and wet,
pleased by unconflicted warrings.

But in a heaven empty.
Why are you there in the clouds?
Two twenty three raindrops.
On your head.

So, have you found it?
Thing thrown away.
Thing picked up.
So, have you found it?
That heavy heaven.

But in a heaven empty.
Why are you there in the clouds?
Asked three raindrops.
The first one my mother.
Second my mother’s mother.
Third is me.

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