In that cafe I penned my poems
pinned a living butterfly of my heart...

Why just the violin can speak the truth
when all the sounds are disingenuous...

When you hid behind
the beauty of your mask...

Truth is relative.
Trust is cosmetic...

It is so harsh and
unmusical for we can't...

From nothing to everything
we are...

The painted flower on the vase
perched on the ledge said...

When you are humble
and down to the earth, there is...

We are two glasses rolling,
and gushing each other with sand...

Those who've beavered hard
to brush me away by their brooms...

Unripe grapes ripe in my mouth
when you kiss me...

A dandelion was yielding to its yawn
on the fluffy mattress of sunshine...