Ask me who he is A tall tree and branches keen words drop; leaves shaken I try to collect them all But forget them by the stream

To etch a love song No earthy ink can suffice Only color drawn From such a naive heart-well Could paint even an inkling

To hide in plain sight Something we all yearn for, but Our differences Do not belong in the mud For mud cannot be polished

Such sweet aroma Breathe in the color deeply Exhale precious wafts Crisp Citric spiral peelings, Fill my compost disposal

Seasonal ill’n Ado, ado, soft achoos Cool wind seeps through me

Anticipation Generic butterflies swarm Twists, knots, fluttering They find no golden nectar Only number two pencils

Archaic toiling Through endless character streams To drown deeper still Beneath black and white waters Until I breathe symbolly

Such an empty sky Countless pensive glances are Over and over Swallowed swift, before their time If only I could keep them

Life’s obligations A daunting sea of turmoil With crest after crest I’ll hide in this briny shell Till the tide forgets my name

Distractions of youth Parade like bright spring flowers Always on the mind Entangling my weak heart To the land of mud and ice

A soft fluttering A pulse that pushes beyond Beating of the heart Oh to express the joys of, A soap opera here and there

Once my beating heart Matched steel drum lines to-to-toe Teaching metronomes But now my beat has fallen Into syncopated depths

A sudden waking From formless blinking through dre… Please, just one more year! Surprised to glance the moon’s fac… An hour before her phase