Need mercy for a
Freudian slip...
The mess you made, was
apocalyptic...
It returns to haunt,
the dilemma, of disowning...
In the humid night
there was a circularity...
This was a shock treatment.
Becoming friends...
I was worried.
A deviant had lost the shape...
Often,
I will return to myself...
My little astral tree
dig your roots of light...
It was oneness,
which brought my poetry...
I don't find words.
Words will find me crying...
Crossing the divine,
I ask the marigolds...
Becoming scattered,
the winged visitors...