I never thought that this would be it.
Never had I thought of thoughts before
This gloomy, this sad; neither had I felt so
Unsure of what life and happiness really mean.
And so I went on, thinking that it was really it.
Unafraid, or trying to look brave, I said it out loud:
Then I cried,
Not buckets of tears, or rivers of tears, or oceans of tears.
I cried nothing but felt myself dried up.
I couldn’t cry anymore. I’d cried too much I’d forgotten
What crying was for, or how crying had ever felt before,
Years ago, eons ago, many ancient hurts ago.
Unafraid, or trying to look brave, I say it out loud:
Then I feel like crying again.





All of a sudden there is frog-singing, loud and tear-furrowed,
In the middle of nowhere in which silence was once the norm.
It’s accompanied by howls of winds, the messy, invisible kiss,
With which the night, star-bright and windless moments before, lightning-fast kills
The imperfect lovers’ perfect quiet, their tender, loving, restful sleep,
The kind we used to have, a great logician’s reason why dreams exist.
Then I feel the longing for your face on which moonbeams would fall,
On which I’d see some appalling deportment of afterglow.
The missed opportunity, irredeemable yet pretty,
That’s got blown away by time, burned away by indecision,
The lost chances to be with you on my being weigh heavy,
On my mind leave an imprint of impossible dimensions.
Amidst the tempest affronting somnolent dirges, awaking dawn,
In an angry, stentorian cry in an audibly gentle morn,
On the rose’s face falls the light and hue of an afterglow,
Ever fragrant, ever sweet, ever soft and pristine as snow.




Rain can drench people and houses
And will wet the streets and the fields.
Still it pours afresh good chances
For setting scorching spirits free.
Rain lulls the sun and summer fun;
Then breathes dear life into autumn bud.
It bathes in us the child and beast,
But can drown our dreams too quick, too deep.
Rain sends us huge drizzles with cold breeze
In slumber, while we’re awake, in dreams.
Rain is my love that knows what’s best
To cradle you to restful sleep.




Down, down the white house’s downspout
Regret goes freely, insouciant.
Lost in too quiet a murmur,
Very quick to sewer regret flows.
The sewer looks dark and feels damp;
It scares the devil in the rat.
As soon as regret’s arrival,
The sewer and rat become pals.