Flying flower with wings of
Black and golden yellow
Danced round and round
The candle light
It fluttered and hovered
Little did it know
That the light
Would take its life
Even as it fluttered
One last time
And went still

There is a whirlpool where my heart should be.

It swallows the sound of your voice, the touch of your hand, all the beauty in the ways you love me, without apology.

In the darkness, if your body was lying still next to my own, I would turn you into a sunset, finger paint the shallow hues of blue, the nostalgic purples and pinks all swirled together against the grain of your skin.
I would show you all the ways your love turns the melanin of my skin into shades of red, like I am a rose in the garden of everything you love, everything that loves you.

And I will untie the knots of your soul like they are shoe laces:
Pulling
And pulling
And pulling at the strings of everything you are until you've unraveled, all your broken pieces blended with my broken pieces, we could create a mosasic, we could be a work of art.
And isn't that ironic, how things that are so broken, can be so beautiful?

There is a whirlpool where my heart should be, it swallows all your love for me, and all its beauty, without apology.

some believe in the deity
others in the sanctity of self
I think poetry is a religion
a soul unto itself
not a god
but close
and I seek her his its
calming words
wisdom
to get on my knees
and worship
every night
alone
here
in my sanctuary
like any
true believer

When she was born
Her relatives spat on the ground,
Called her mother a witch
And said "The only thing she's good for is dowry".

By 6 years old
She understood what being a girl meant;
Be still and quiet
Your opinion is irrelevant .

At 11 she watched her brothers go to school
As she sat in the kitchen,
Doing 'the work of a woman',
With tears of longing streaming down her face.

At 17, she slept with a man who was 67
Living with the cruel hand she'd been dealt;
How did she raise 2 children
When she was still a child herself?

At 35, no longer a child bride
She was replaced,
With a girl that had not
Even come of age.

She held the young woman
And dried her tears.
She understood her sorrow
She had felt it for years.

But this was her destiny,
Her role from birth.
To be the silent weeper,
The cleaner, the mother,
The lover; who would never know Love.

At 65 she's died,
Buried next to a man she never even knew.
Not a single male cries,
Her funeral attended by few.

So why the abuse?
Why so much pain?
Why raise such a brave soul in vain?

One rebellious voice cries,
With tears streaming down her face
"If only she were male!"
She looks to me and says

"You wish to know,
why she could have had no joy?
The answer is simple
They wanted a boy"

she chooses to remain beautiful,
although life has scarred her so horrifically inside...

...a phenomenal woman she is ❤

Your race,
Your pace!

Our Realtionship became like the game of truth or dare.
Unaware that the questionnaire would make an emotional wear and tear.
Aurguements Reached despair.
That was the end of our enchanting love affair.
My mouth became a ***** chair
Because you turned into a grizzly bear.
What happened to us Dear?
Because The I can taste the hatered in the air
Everytime that you and I are near
I sense the tension in the atmosphere
Its like you can suspect my fear.
No Warning sign! So Just Beware.
Love doesnt live Here.
Nor does it dwell there.
I became your toxin
And so you became boxed and locked in
Confused and had no other option.
And You, You were my deadly venom
You were like a strong Wind with Serious Momentum.
Our feelings we resent 'em.
We became each others addiction.
Triggering Afflection
Feeling Constriction.
Generating Friction
Mentally and Emotionally we have both given an eviction.
for each other we dont even seem to care.
At first it was so sincere.
But now this burdern I can no longer bare.
Now our hearts are well aware
That Love Doesnt live here
Nor does it dwell there.

The clock on my tablet has struck twelve
And I wonder what it is I can easily delve
Into on a night as wondrous as this one is

Back home the witching hour has come
And I am sixty-seven and feeling calm
Here in the queen’s realm I still am sixty-six

I watch the cloudy skies for a sign, any sign
Dawn is a reticent traveller and by design
In the home country we’d be up and about

What a lark when finally it’s daybreak here
And there’s none of the fabled English bird songs
To serenade my day, just the sulky silence and drizzle

Who needs contrivance when family is here and warm?
My day is made when finally at table we sit and are merry
Counting my blessings and dreaming of something spectacular.