an orange sat contentedly
or so it seemed to a quick eye...

it's quite sad, so sad
when afterthoughts don't count...

ever-present trolling social media
ever pressing searing avatar...

In the Mirror...

“untethered”
shelves of faces wheel past our names...

That hamlet where mum's lineage dwells,
Ancestral ruins, where silence swells...

A poem is the funeral pyre bright,
Of pulsations once exhumed from the deep...

known quantity bereft of quality;
a name of little beyond its letters...

Farther onward, always skyward;
high above, hurtling ever hard...

Entering through resplendent gates,
to where countless dead seek final rest...

wreathe of words sprout upon doorstep bed
beneath a far-looking moon, whisper to ear...

Cry we all toward places unnamed
Rise above the crested hills...