There are times when I am trapped
within a sandstorm, to only witness
lifelessness, swishing past my cheek.
The mirage of a bird - guarding vitality -
too, resided in days of yore.
She took my smile and planted seeds,
but forgot that flowers couldn't grow
upon the marble skin.
So cosseted did I, the petals in my mind,
against the silky gown... Alas,
tears had long dried, to keep them
alive.
If only did a bird assort.
Dusty plumes; adorning straw
within my hair.
Scentless is the slumbering nearness
of us; eluding, refusing,
imperfection.
Standstill
do I wish to breathe again?
No sign of sentiments upon my cheek.
Lurching inside apathies,
a prolonged anguish still remains;
fragments of nature still repeat,
sandy is perception.