and the trees dance on and on . . .

I haven't been lost. . .
as I round the corner,
another year -
another day

I haven't been found,
either,
but the blue of the sky
reflects
in the corners of my eyes
where a small tear
like a lake
full of life

passive and
still under the setting sun
a fire blooms
and rages silently . . .

I once dreamed
there were faces
in trees
and they danced with me
in the night as
they sang to me of death
and life
and death and life

and that it took a hundred thousand
eternities
for one small molecule of water
to pass from here to there . . .
I am the lost one . . .
I wander in circles

in a crowd of stars

where I am seeking

a field of flowers

over a hidden sea

drilling

into my heart;

the beats

irregular and

the blood drained

by the dark of the night . . .

there is a white moth

flickering,

like an old movie,

the story of my life -

I am here

in the end,

raveling

the thread,

as a lacy wing

blooms before my face,

I was wrong

when I told the truth. . .

sweat drips from my eyes,

salty and sweet,

dark heart shaped splashes

sullenly evaporate

on this warm living soil

where a molecule of water

dies

and dies again

(Written under melancholia on the eve of my birthday)