Sunday, January 25, 2015


the love itself,
being uncertain,
produces inbalances.
In Heaven,
as well as on earth,
I'm sure the Peony
shows the most delicate tenderness
while still on the flower garden woods.
like the innocence
of a new born child,
like the thick blanket of snow,
on Christmas morning.
Reconnect, some say,
play solo,
the face of the hungry child,
the forgotten field
of those racers I have passed.
back to back,
she counts her own sheep
to sleep as he
intends a patch of roses across the Monroe street.
I resist his invitation,
the empty space is so precious,
and the attraction of his betrayal.
while in Heaven,
there is absolute love
from God, and you can live
for centuries, and never doubt
a soul, No pain of love of triangles.
but now, there is
neither beer nor coffee, only this relation
still left to maintain.

Thursday Poets Rally Week 79: January 14-January 27, 2015 (5th anniversary celebration)

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