Today: Back again

She knocks on the door, with a puddle under her feat,
and she squirms in quite pitiful disgust,
and then laughter...just joyous

The laughter that resonates,
from the human need to being caught in nature's conversation.

Waiting for that call

You drove me insane. By every second, witholding, ceasing to exist as a possibility... Your kind smile so easily afflicts me by the ever tempting vision of it being an effacing memory, something doomed to be in the past....

by your very witholding, by your hasteless carelessness, callousness I mean.

That it hurts to be suspended by the splendour of hope and the apparent inconsequence of putting out into the deep.

Swiftly, call, or, no...swiftly.

Little House

Little House

The little house sits, no, tucks itself between the folds of the undulating hills. The trees sway gently, unperturbed by the sight of an impending onslaught of thunder and lighting. Then, a light within the house exclaims and dims, but only in one window, framing a sort of signal, only for you.Again, it repeats and dims off like a heart beat.

The winds whispers quietly, rolling lowly over the thin blades of grass at your feet, in wave forms, each one slightly different, slightly warmer or cooler than the preceding one.

You choose the brave on, treading down a gentle but ever increasingly steep descent, with no moon to guide, no leading sound that beckons... only the faint suspicion that the light asks for it to be discovered.

Muse: The most 'depressing' night in a while.

He sits. I ask him if he likes the rain and he says, "I find it soothing".

And down on the pavement, the puddle grows as if the drops from heaven were for it alone, and as if to concur with him, the puddle whispers with each drop of rain into it's body, perhaps begging to be heard. "But, I can hear you", I tell her.

"I am not mysterious", he said, a while ago.

But how can this be?, I think. I can hear you too.

His eyes gazes in a distance not calculable and he doesn't know it is so. As is all things, mystery is what your eye does not want to see.

Muse: The papers between us

In a box he finds me,
With words so small - tiny,
In perfect order - place,
Longing for His embrace.

And when silence doth prove,
Solitude absolute,
He teases me with gall,
In white papers stacked tall.

Thus when his touch departs,
On paper, yes his thoughts,
All dreams seem open - given,
And desires, thrown wide e'en.

Father, brother... smitten,
Child-like art mine feelin',
Craving something similar,
Estranged by something nearer.

Muse: The Night of Sin

The silver shadow,
casts on my pillow,
...the night breaks..

Muse: The ... in everything

He sees the sun in the moon,
the breathless charm on the skin of eggs,
a prophecy in an ellipse.