"are we playing a game?"
she asks slyly...
looking out of the
corner of her eyes.

(he is not there)

"is this a game of hide and seek,
with no seek?"

(no answer)

she has never played this game,
if that's what it is.

all the silly men
say the
same
thing.

"no drama. no games."

but she thinks
the truth is that
they thrive on drama
they come alive in games.

is this what we do, now?
arrange people like
players on a chessboard?

check them
in and out
like books?

blindfold them,
spin them around,
then run away?

Again, she asks,
"is this a game?"

(silence)

many men scurry away
from confrontation
slip away in the night
to avoid truth

"if this is a game,
i think you are losing",
she says quietly.

Yesterday I
opened my old
poetry book, when
I found a pressed
autumn leaf.
Its fragrance took
me back in time,
back in that cold rainy day
Then I was so young
and beautiful
when it got caught in
my hair by the
mischievous wind,
bathed in sky's tears.
But now it's dried
And it will never
be as it was before.
Just like me...

On an autumn walk at the ides of day
I saw birds of a feather fly together away.
As they flew over flames
In an ides-of-day way
They got caught in the weather
And so forever became
The tall twisted tale
That we hear of so much:
Two birds with one hailstone,
Death from maelstrom above.