Flowers are beautiful,
Until they grow mold.
No more does their fresh scent linger,
Throughout our homes.
Withered and decaying,
No longer do they roam.
They revert to the earth,
No blooms to be shown.
Calla lily, daisy, dahlia,
All on their own.
Hoping, praying,
To discover the unknown.
Funerals are a hoax,
Even to the old crone.
She saw what they didn’t,
No more seeds to be sown.
An honest mess- A rain cloud affair; Nothing more than clothes in the corner piled high on the chair, Your mouth says a name- doesn’t seem to know mine. Who knows if you’ll ever say what you mean? Mes
What if spilled ink Was nothing more than Dense words compacted On your muddled page? Not a mess to mop up, But a message to sort out. What sort of message Would we find in the Deep recesses of our pe
The ephemeral glow of the sun, rising above the ocean. Light rays reach out, like the hands of a god offering eternal tranquility. Gossamer glaze covering photographs that never do justice to reality.
