Deaf beethoven heard thy symphony
Genius Michelangelo from a rock curved thee
Blind Homer saw thy comely figure
Davinci painted thee superior to Mona Lisa

Ancient Greeks on papyrus praised thee
Today's poets on books we sing of thee
Time turn all beauty and beasts to ashes
But thou ancient lady like a phoenix rises from the dust

sweet tiny nothings;
visual haikus

the heart thumps louder
lungs clinch head spins

my fingertips are numb
filled with feathers that ferry no feeling
i press, i ****, i reach out for more
i know my fingers are there
they're simply just numb

my ear drums are throbbing
silence smothers them in a suffocating stillness
i strain, i scream, i yearn for a sound
i know my ears are viable
they're simply just unsound

next to of course god america i
love you land of the free and so forth oh
say can you see by the dawn's early my
country no longer wants to go
on united but still divided into states
of disbelief in every colour not white or tanned
just sons deserve your glorious name but wait
by law by lord by list by land
why talk of brain when she could look prett-
ier than these bragadocius men
who rushed without thought to the race to grab
the prize that meant so much but not to them
who wore the voice of hate just cause it fit?

She spoke. And hid away her old now torn hijab.

The routines come.

But they come silently,
and they slither,
and they crawl,
and they sneak into our lives
one inch at a time,
hiding in those missing minutes and seconds,
hidden in hours and days lost to the hubris
of our own sense of youth and permanence.

And all the time we've wasted is held so high,
high up above our heads,
just out of our reach,
just a whisper of familiar texture on our fingertips,
as we dance upon our tippy toes,
as our arms slowly tire
of trying to reach what we once held so easily,
as we look back on the shadows
stretched out behind us
overtop of our ever-lengthening timelines,
and we realize that time is indeed passing
and that the golden memories are just that,
memories,
and these stolid routines that we never noticed
aren't making any new ones.

The routines will come,
but ****** be if I'm going to sit idly by
and let them willingly take me.

Stencil-streamed mud-clipped boots,
Eiffel tower disguise,
Brilliantly wrapped in a corona,
Of sadness and delight

Un-burdened I dance,
Stinging silently across,
Aqua colors,
Symposium of disaster they call,
Whom life?

You speak of as if it was betrothed to you alone,
Or some ghast faint reflection
Someday the purpose of creation,
will creatively in-twine, over
and over again

Dis-purse, dis-purse,
like cool mists of glee,
showers of gladness,
inside droplets of peace