There she runs,
Bamby of the woods of his heart,
frolicking about the low leaves
and high roots.

Look, she joys in the freedom
of the trees,
holding back the world
like some ancient harness
that binds the black god
to his stool.

There's her innocence,
leaping in the mist,
drinking of the ambience
of courtly bird songs.

He sees through the eyes
of a crouching beast:
He picks up her scent,
and his decorum is vanquished.

I always wondered friend,
where you had gone into
hibernation of silence
even though you do love
most of mine
this one I just a while ago,
composed at a friend’s place,
the time was up
but I couldn't edit it.

Now you choose to comment on it
with your lovely sentiment...
Lovedly one
Not many, rather any know me,

nor will you ever too,
but on the first day of each month,
I do remember you.

iv.

within genesis,
a silent monk chanted
at a perpetual window,
thin cracks of canticle’s
completed my insanity,
at astonishing heights
invisible feet walked on air,
free of psychosis
the water rippled as I slipped,
silently screaming
into this dazzling stream
called life …

v.

clarity is and was
no cushion to float on,
its feathers,
still protrude from the
corner of my swag,
and my feet
are pierced to arch
with the stigma …

vi.

Modern machinery mayhem
the spin of it
the sound crashing
into Tuesday on heavy streets
the pinnacle and article of hard-working man
entering day
your eyes
vistas going blind
hard edges
soon
clouding angry
discontent

where is the truth of silence
in breaking bread?

the world is a tinderbox
the heart lonely and deceived,
there are prophets amoung us
the heart's cage open