Picking, lacy clouds from April skies
to make a bouquet of wildflowers,
I get tired of leaning and think of was
Disappointed,
since when did I decide to
hide myself behind insincerity?
Made, my wish come true
by writing one more poem on
dull riots of burning willows
Distraught,
twice-born within
seven days of this in a hotel
of days like a passing shadow
Pitied, myself for being so
for having such a weak
and childish heart
Humm, in the marketplace
I patiently pick out the perfect
moments from a basket of kiwis
Surprised, by ten years roamed
of letting days go idly by
while I stay perfectly still
Faithless,
compiling my work
of brushing grass and prose,
not caring anymore about fame
Mindless, my shutter snaps
another beautiful day that’s mine
and I quickly pin it on my wall
Wending,
without a word,
I fall from April skies
