Tripping over midnight,
One day …
time will catch up with my sadness.
Drops will dissipate to sediments in sand.
Bottled well, sage
instinctively preserves antiquities.
You say …
You don’t dream,
yet I have spare memories to give away
they sink in fuchsia clouds
velocity collides with consolation.
It should have been a syzygy,
the awe of infinitesimal.
Instead, it was eclipsed by a storm
delayed on time lines tracked by
trains in lieu of emergency services.
My poem espouses that separation
is weighted by carriages of integrity,
purpose and health
doused by the fuel of rhetoric.
I branch out at dendrochronology
and my perpetual sadness
will continue to stifle my growth.
Perhaps a lantern,
will keep me sane
and wedged between
the lowest branch
and its own shadow's play.
Only the moon would,
in the end of ends
be so bloomin’ sure.
(for my most precious medicinal Herb,
... I infuse daily)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.