Softened petals of beating notes, fragrantly adding depth to any poetry I write, while listening to an inner song, especially being sung straight to my soul.

ago in an innocent and pure faith.Closing ends of open songs, givingthem the rest they so deserve afterall these years.

All of it having to be lived and experienced in individual personal ways.Expecting to be done and then being surprised with memories not really forgotten, just pushed down to live with their presence.

Curious, I wonder if they have aromas, textures, or if they might taste good besides.Clouds always touching my mind, why can’t I touch them?

on to their beauty as I fall asleep.Keeping thoughts of them closely encased in mydreams, along with their memories.Beautiful to recall on lonely, gray eveningsspent in silent growing sorrow.

Tallying up pretenses of imagination’s focus, weavingthem into magical patterns, catching sunlight in prismsof crystals and affixing them to cacti in desert gardensabove.

Shards of sadness rip and tear me as I wallow alone in a life only Ican justify through poetry.