tears to the skies


and hundred dollar bills


a squeaking bed

Working behind closed doors,

pleasures known to a faceless man


she suffocates in her tears

“I am happy or sad?”

she wonders


It feels so wrong,

but so right

Is this where I belong?


within a rush of a fading high,

and the agony of a broken heart


my waning spirit,

it drifts in this endless cosmos

as I watch its infinite stars,

burning out,

one at time,


to when I become devoured,

into its black hole

with my tears to the skies




Words of a blind poet

speaking of a beauty unseen
the ruby lips florescent,

a flower,

from a withering stem
the fragrance
that seizes
the midnight breeze—

the lily of the valley,
her delicate petals
like crystals
of the stars—

her moonlight smile,
a treasure
in the secret chamber of the mind
and upon a silent winter night,

she dances,
her hair like a feather,
to the tempo

of her lover’s frozen breath









her heart belongs

it is beautiful in the skies

above the clouds where a bed of white spreads

sometimes she wonders,

if her wings would stretch forever

and even then,

the stars were just too far

a little close,

but their twinkles were still faint

and so she returned

back into her little cage

the falling bricks and the rusty roof

turning to dust,

the memories of a young blood,

an ancient spirit,

returning to the skies,

where her heart belongs




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