Cometh the spring, no tears for the fallen leaf. Just the drunk wind laughing at its wretched feast. Caressing candles stroking its limbs. Unknown to the plunging creek,. Peeking with its eyebrows tweaked. How is that pain loses its charm,. When it is the measure of the befallen calm. It is that little drop of compassion, that mojo of kind,. The absence of which rinse you of your rhyme. Let the pain overflow its flow,. With a servitude to distance that keeps.

Sunday, January 19, 2014. As pus oozes from the eye. Drowning is the new baptism. To hide the sores that home maggots. Writhing in ceaseless patterns through your skin. Burrowing into those voiceless chords. Breathing in the dust of dead dry skin. Hope had been laid to rest. Sunday, September 9, 2012. The ceiling thuds with footsteps. A blue butterfly, dead on the floor. On the white balcony wall it goes.

I took a 6 month break and all I got was this lousy title. Actually, I took a small sabbatical from the Internet in general. I AM human, after all. So much has happened in those six months.

by Ranier Maria Rilke in letters to young poet. Thursday, October 16, 2014. I had known him for long. Four years is a long time. Since I had seen him coming down from. Was the first thing he had said.