When you laugh

It is waking at night
Beneath a waterfall

Seeing clear through
The veil

To a multitude of stars

When lovers die,

where does their love go?

Can anyone find it,

or is it lost forever?

“What do you hate the most?”
“Waiting.”

“What are you best at?”
“Waiting.”

the moon lights a bed of frost.
the wind a storyteller.

are the stars and the sea
still there
when the sky weeps white?

the moon lights a bed of frost.
the wind is a storyteller

and the griffons know the failure
of flesh, flesh and bones

and feeling the bones
in my crooked nose,
I understand sunrise
is not a guarantee.

the sky weeps white.

but the nightingale sometimes
sings to me of you in my dreams.


...(if the nightingale sings of me
then know I hear her too.)

if I've scattered like star dust
just to glow in your sky
Maybe- that too
is a kind of becoming.

When you write poems with intent
poetry is forcibly discarded

When you write poems without intent
poetry discards itself.

I speak,
and storms gather.
Their chaos is music—
mine is thunder.

I only wished to belong,
but  I end up
too loud
becoming the reason
for anguish