angel

sometimes the world gets too heavy
and grey and he'll just live in
his garden of willow trees and off-
white primroses, where the birds
never sing, and the grass never grows.

he would lick the dewdrops that dawn
deserted last night, swallowing each mouthful
carefully; then nuzzling into his own breast he would
anxiously kiss himself,
kiss himself so tenderly.

the sun could only smile slightly, as people
outside they murmured: what of love and passion?
what of death and loss? for no garden bloomed
for them; no garden would

kiss themselves so tenderly.

hoho

the quest for beauty
leads many on wayward paths
stumbling down rocky trails
that wind everywhere but to
coveted desires

and
many are snatched away
to be made by sharp teeth
and sweet smelling mist,
left to stumble onwards
with taunt skin

the truly beautiful
are those who glide with ease
backwards
forwards
sidewards
often stopping to wander away
caring not for sacred paths
to walk on soft grasses
and smell beautiful
flowers

/ arrrr if ya don't practice anything, you lose what you once had - goes for sports, poetry and things the world over and over and over :(