In the corner of a shop doorway Did I see the canvas of life? Preening its self with claws, tightly, frappe. Feet wrapt in dead, wildlife: One nonchalantly, above the other
Today is but a sore parting gift of tears To call upon the winds dust—his oil-lamp spirit! Such seas suspended in her dew-lit spheres: His imminence; her acumens dispirit.
No time to judge The flowers the dust Whatever creation is, It is imbued with love. And must! Have the good- Sense to fly like a dove. No time for ill will But lust corrupts
Lust weighs heavily upon each breast With a heavier heart and soul A serpent coils around to ingest The spirit that is more than a pinhole Enactor awaiting the embroiders
