I dreamt a dream of moonlight,
glittering and pale
A girl used to dance under the sun,
as her heart faded
she ran towards the moon
brushed her fingertips in the stardust.

I hear soft hands clap,
as voices sing a haunting melody
I think back to a girl with light footsteps,
a golden persona on stage,
a smile after.

I wonder if she was consumed
by greed,
as the nights grew longer,
if she ever found the sun again.
Perhaps she found it in the stardust,
brushed off her fingertips.

A thousand deaths later,
a black swan emerged from the snow
feathers coated in a soft tinkling melody.
A cold night
waited for the sun to come again.

Ink coated her fingertips,
as I dream of the dawn,
the moon finding the sun one last time
together in the sky
for a moment.

She was staring out the window
On a rainy afternoon
She liked jazz
but he always played blues

Tune after tune

So it was blues she listened to
With mock appreciation
for the records in the room

A lazy lovers weekend
with books and plants and puff

She smiles every so often
But she knows she’s had enough

fake roses, I desired;
authenticity, was never important
because with a beauty just like real roses
even if only from afar, even if only external,
it was all blissfully, naively, enough.

fixated so long with dozens of fake roses,
for fake roses I burned, for fake roses I wallowed;
the burning façades, the far-off daydreams
I thought it was enough
to add color to my garden of thorns.

and for fake roses I pathetically plundered,
for fake roses, I wore myself out;
but amidst sunflowers and lilies, I'm content to admit
for a tangible token that could never fulfill,
for fake roses, I'm glad I've outgrown for the real.

How beautiful—today the birds are chirping,
sun agleam against a cobalt backdrop
no clouds in sight and buds blooming through grass.

How uplifting—today the world is singing,
a staccato symphony of voices crying out,
singing from terraces, yards and windows, for all to hear.

How ironic—today is the death of the world
as appears, yet it’s backdrop, it’s soundtrack
unlike what’s been imagined, at least not exteriorly.

How instead—no fire and brimstone
with tears in the eyes as loved ones embraced
instead of through Hell raining down, it was a silent, melancholy spring.