I always sketch our memories from a morning's...
where a plethora of birds look beyond their sleepy...

Healing finds harmony where rivers echo
Enduring rain and promises too immersed...

I am unlike a raindrop
heavy with lament...

I talk as one that complains about windows,
too receptive to the day's award...

On that day you peacefully passed
from your family...

It is a quarter 'til ten
and I am alive on the inside...

Oh God!
I know writing these words...

Our lips gradually reunite
after empty mornings of waste...

Scenery from my door
begs in high quality accents...

Envious wind snakes around our necks;
it breaks its own boundaries to terminate us...

She tumbles across the breezeless lake,
awaiting diamonds from his trip to the sky...

You keep pushing her down
even though she rises above...