and I like it.
I give, I give, I never take
Where the Arrow Points
An arrow shot across the sky. Observers watch with keen-eyed stare, Convinced the answer lay right there. Pointing to the truth afar. But eyes fixed on fleeting streak, Mistook the
Echoes of the Felled
I wrote this poem out of a sense of frustration with my current approach to a memoir I'm writing. I've come to realize that the story
Bloomin' Wirds
Past poetry, distant chore, Youth's eyes, nothing more. Now in bloom, pen in tow, Verses flow, blossom, and grow. Others' words, a silent sea, My own, a
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Whispers willow's sway, Secrets close of day, Shadows silent play, Unspoken led away. Moonlit water's face, Mirrors silvered grace, Ripple story's trace, Unsaid time&
Palu's Song
Palu, a joyful purple butterfly, made her home in a majestic tree beside a serene lake. This tree, a grand old tree, sprawled wide over the lake shore, adorned with
Dance that time forgot.
A room lies in dreams. The air, thick, anticipation, murmurs of forgotten songs. Whispers of fog. Dancers, forms fleeting, like memories out of reach. The sonorous beat, two figures gravitate,
My Fool's Lament
Once, I set forth with jester's grin, Eager for the world to let me in. Yet now I tread, my laughter stilled, My youthful zeal long since fulfilled.