A Moth in the Garden

A Moth in the Garden



It is only noon
when the moth
makes its way in here.
The Garden of mind
is this garden here.

I wake from my nap
when I hear its wings.
I hear paradise,
when I hear its wings.
Like angel voices,
when I hear its wings.

I look toward it
and it taunts right back.
Its eyes soon meet mine.
It is a crystal
on a garden leaf.
I want to catch it.

With strain and void strife,
I leap for that moth.
An aura of fear,
surrounds the creature.
I feel its laced wings
on my finger tips,
as it flies away.

My pupils follow
the path that it takes.
And painful droplets
slide right down my cheek.
It one past noon.

The Life of A Man


Weaving and waving,
the life of a man.
It is tied like a knot,
tied and then untied
as if an attempt
to torture meaning
right out of its mouth.


You cannot hear cries
from falling flowers,
because all flowers
are not heard inside
the presense of kings.


Lurking late below,
a southern village.
With no phones to talk
to kings of the world.


Because us flowers
are only flowers,
and flowers bloom deep
in the fertile earth.
Whilst kings sing false songs
on the shaky clouds.


Weaving and waving,
the life of a man.
It is tied like a knot,
tied and then untied
as if an attempt
to torture meaning
right out of life's mouth.