In Winter - you were my Temple, an altar
that diffused incense to benches overcrowded with...

There's an apple tree in my backyard.
I watered it not...

The ocean
waves hello's...

A constant poetical struggle
is to stroll through barren, forsaken stations...

Mother said "the sun will come, open...
as white curtains sang a tune of clish-clash...

Like leaves in oaks, I'll learn to fall
from branches short or from to tall...

There's this thing called the ego,
It likes sitting on the passanger seat...

Why must I write using imagery?
Should I paint words as if those words...

In the backyard,
I searched for you in the stars...

Should I say it?
Should I...

I thought my thoughts were clear
like rivers flowing with streams...

Where a river flows
between mountains of lilies...