I feel fractured.
Fractured into a million pieces.
Like the mirror that was hit
Or the bowl that was dropped.
Now I kneel on the floor,
Staring at the pieces.
How do I fix it?
Can I fix it with gold?
Like the ancient art of kintsugi?
But what if I can’t find the gold?
What if I continue to kneel
In the fractured pieces of my soul.
The pieces that continue to cut deep.
Because I am fractured,
Fractured into a million pieces.

Gold tainted lillies
and drooling lakes of desire,
the weeping willows
and endless breeze
make for a perfect afternoon

Somethings are just golden,
Even if gold doesn't stay,
Somethings don't fade away.

I am golden,
An idea that refuses to fade,
I am brave.

A primordial spark beckons consciousness to forge its way
Sensations so vivid breathing color into his gray
The spiral of change leading into ascendance of the prey
He welcomes this radiant spectrum of life to stay

Paths collide and intertwine
Follow and he swears to make you shine
Aiming for the peak where only gods dine
At grandeur’s frontier, shadows and doubts quietly align

Within his mind, a battle of virtue and vice, always in clash
Glimpses of what should be sheer happiness pass in a flash
Too occupied with the violence, the world offered him more than any hoard of cash
Help him find a way to let his weary mind refresh

It seems he wrote of this tale a hundred times before
No less expected of a man bruised at his core
He coaxes life for a dance once more
Haunted by his own ghost, he’ll never be alone on the dancefloor

Countless quests, yet the golden apple remains out of sight
Dwelling in the lust for that which brings naught but blight
He could be crowned in gold, raised to a dazzling height
He could be a rich man, if only he’d learn what is worth the fight

Goldfinches
And dandelions compete
For yellowest yellow.

Every now and then I wonder,
Is this world ever connected?
With all those parallels, it makes me amazed—
Are those meant to be forgiven in this way?

I pity the young, staring at themselves on pieces,
How must they have spent their days?
Those birthdays, those meetups, those laughs—
Are those meant to be forgiven in this way?

Do we grow to live or live to grow?
How the world has changed from words
By foreplay, from growing to gaining...
Maybe all these mean some volume, some intensity.
But I, here, writing all these words—will they ever reach with printing grace?
Maybe, I guess, these things are meant to be forgiven in this way.

—Parisha

When an equivocal mind is fed ambivalence off silver spoons,
the inevitable death from starvation will arrive.
For I will never taste the conclusions
of my own vulgarization.
Ambiguity is no nourishment to satisfy my soul;
Though being consumed is quite finger-licking.

I’m chewing on my own becoming.

Will I have the right to be fastidious about
my growth?
If dipping myself in gold would be more
palatable to the one’s surrounding the table
only I sit upon?
Another round of silver contemplation and napkins please.

For every one of your tragedies
I will write happy endings

For every one of your bad days
I will help make good ones

For every one of your break downs
I will be there to pick you up

For every skipped meal
I will treat you to comfort

For every forgotten memory
I will make new ones with you

For every forgotten line
A daisy for the courage to try

For every tear shed
A smile shared

For every scar
A star

You are gold
And I, yellow.