let me live my life as a leaf

let me live my life as a leaf.
let me lift and leave as they do.
they beg not to let go of limb…
but they go nevertheless, their greeness outgrown.
their brightness only crumbling to rustling brown bits
as i watch whether trampler will rake them back to me…
they do not stay as i do.
i alone cannot bear for each of them to go.
leaving me so bare and barren once more.
let eternal winter slay me through once.
lashes no more, no one hears my white muffled cries.
crack me in two and be done with your icy touch.
let not Spring come again with her adornments,
they mean nothing to me no more.
Sultry Summer with her,
blush of petit sweet offerings.
my bitterness ever taints them…
carressing eyes yet shriveling tongues.
etch not your beloveds upon me…
i promise your parting,
under my very boughs.

foolish zenith

sometimes
having reached
a foolish zenith

 reason surpasses
the enduring calls of
past words

all that is subjected to difference
seems thinly veiled as the last

all disguising the one truth
with no more than a
used epiphany

let me live my life as a leaf

let me live my life as a leaf.
let me lift and leave as they do.
they beg not to let go of limb…
but they go nevertheless, their greeness outgrown.
their brightness only crumbling to rustling brown bits
as i watch whether trampler will rake them back to me…
they do not stay as i do.
i alone cannot bear for each of them to go.
leaving me so bare and barren once more.
let eternal winter slay me through once.
lashes no more, no one hears my white muffled cries.
crack me in two and be done with your icy touch.
let not Spring come again with her adornments,
they mean nothing to me no more.
Sultry Summer with her,
blush of petit sweet offerings.
my bitterness ever taints them…
carressing eyes yet shriveling tongues.
etch not your beloveds upon me…
i promise your parting,
under my very boughs.

Fleeting Flirtation

 There is an art:

which each of us create

anew with each encounter,

whatever day.

 

…safely exhilarating…

…securely coy…

…furtive, fleeting, taboo…

though willingly innate.

 

silent observers swear by it:

the glance, the presence, the immense haughtiness.

innocent…yet charged with minute passion.

 

a glance met…

as a mask slides upon each player’s face:

a mute drama begins.

 

around each involvee a force field emerges:

actions of the other magnified,

leaving all else oblivious.

 

engaged in this duel of strangers two,

interest is feigned upon all else but the other,

so daringly they counter each other’s broach of space.

 

The untouched brush:

 

so close, so close…

to reach out and trace a finger upon….

 

yet moment by moment intimacy,

cannot purely connect them.

 

so there one and one,

stay each unknown:

 

to continue their glance

to continue their silent dance…