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Poem: Seven Years Ago

Seven Years Ago


Seven years ago he stepped out of the grass

Into the muddy swamp, littered with glass

Garbage, vermin, toxic fumes, acid, death

He started digging, glass cutting fragile skin

The wounds festered but he ignored his health

For to stop digging, to cease torture, would be sin

Seven years ago, he slew a butterfly

Seven years ago, his conscience died

Seven years later, the tears’ not dried

Seven years later, his hands’ still tied

People stare from the grass, unwilling to come near

His crime forgotten by everyone but himself

He chooses not to stop, not to come back to the land of wealth

He’s bound not by chains but by fear

Fear of harm, of killing again

Unfit to be human, he keeps digging


A butterfly lands on his shoulder and he flinches

Stumbles away frantically

Buries his head in his grimy hands

Whispers a prayer for his old self.

Seven years ago, when he was human.

Seven years ago, when he could feel.

Snow Sonnet

Cold is the snow falling down the window
Gently, softly, quiet on the meadow
Its an endless expanse, totally flat
Except over there, pawprints of a cat
She silently wanders through frozen land
While the flakes keep falling, drops of candy
I follow the cat into the unknown
And then – like the wind – She’s suddenly gone
Falling snow covers the trail of small paws
I turn back to find the warmth of the house
But see just white – swallowed in nature’s jaws
To her expanse, I am just a mere mouse
I navigate by smell of warm cocoa
To home – I warm my hands from winter’s snow

Life Toothpaste

Life toothpaste.

Pristine when bought.

After 5th use, deflates slightly.

After 50th use, wrinkled.

After 500th use, empty.

Buy more.

Empties again.

Bought ten when it was on sale.

High on life.

Ran out.

Cavities happen.

Soul fills with irreparable holes.

Decays to nothing.

Get wooden teeth.

Fake a soul.

Fake a smile.

Flowers Part 2 (Death)

She smells a flower
But she is lost in the dark
Blind, in the pitch fog

He sees the flowers
They cascade before his eyes
Picks one, holds it high

She tastes the flower
Bittersweet memories burn
But ghosts cannot feel

He feels the flowers
As he falls into her grave
Heartbreak is soundless.

I hear the flowers
They tell a tragic story
A life ended here


Rearranging some words and lines, the 5 haiku from The Flowers can be given an entirely different meaning.  The love of his life is dead, and unable to cope, he dies next to her in a heartbreak.  The flowers here are mere witnesses.

The Flowers

He smells the flowers
But is blind and cannot see
Lost in the meadow

She sees the flowers
Their eternal beauty shines
But ghosts cannot feel

He feels the flowers
Brings a petal to his mouth
His taste is extinct

She tastes the flowers
Bittersweet tears cry in pain
But their voice is mute

I hear the flowers
They tell a tragic story
Dead, fragrant no more

Five Haikus, in a cycle of gaining one sense at the expense of another.  If there exists any message behind the words, its probably that if a human and an object of great beauty coexist, one will succumb to the effects of the other.

This idea is not new.  In The Odyssey, there were Sirens whose songs were the most beautiful sounds to ever grace the planet.  Unfortunately, anyone unlucky enough to hear the sounds will meet an impending doom of hearing the songs and forsaking all other necessities including food and drink, possibly even breath.

Many poisonous animals employ vibrant moving colors which would captivate the eye, but should one approach too closely, a downfall involving potent neurotoxins awaits.  Of course, some people kill and preserve these animals to admire their beauty, but this of course leaves said animal dead.

To survive, everything needs some form of defense mechanism.  An object/animal/plant of beauty’s defense lies not in its appearance, so they more often use the element of surprise.  Woe to the innocent observer who gets too close then, and is jumped upon by such a defense mechanism.  Either it is potent enough to harm the observer sufficiently, or it is not and the observer retaliates, destroying the object/animal/plant of beauty.  Thus, unless under special circumstances, they cannot coexist.

No Place Like Home


Floor is cold and bare.

The silent echoes of life

Doused by the screeching laugh of a ghost.

Walls are dusty.

They smell of urine and decadence.

I step upon a fallen shard of glass.

It cuts into my bare foot with raw pain

But I do not feel it.

The pain is nothing to the sorrow and remorse

That inhabit my heavy heart.

The oven timer blinks.

It mocks me, flashing 12:00 over and over.

The wooden dining table remains, rotting.

One leg has fallen over.

Standing pathetically on three legs, it begs to be put out of misery.

But I am powerless to do so.

I find the couch I loved two years ago.

Instead of love, hated boils inside.

Memories tear at my eyes, begging to be seen.

I close them, but vivid pictures remain.

Memories of living in this wretched unholy house.

There is no place like home.

A Fallen Leaf

Forsaking my tribe

I am unique, they all green

I show a fantastical display of colors – red, orange, yellow

They held me back

I jump, not looking back, into an unknown abyss


The ground is soft and cushions my fall

There, I see others just like me

Colorful. Magnificent.

I also see dead ones whose skins take a deathly pallor of brown

But I am at peace with myself, able to show my true colors.

Then it happens.

Everyone is swept into a pile.

Captured, compressed, unable to move

A prismatic yet ugly amalgam of scattered color


I look upwards to my old tribe and plead for help

They turn away.

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