Stained . . .

In the heat of her body
she scribbles his initials and her heart
into the lines of her palm.

Her sweat thickens now with blood
Into that bittersweet potion
of love and death;
leaving in the air . . a scent of the same.

And
when she looks back today,
she rubs her palm again and again
but the stain of his name
just won't peel off.

Thoughts On Transience
The silent woods around are still,
And quiet blows the autumn breeze.
Now golden flowers on the hill
And yellow leaves on aging trees,
Shine bright against the azure sky,
As snowy clouds come floating by.

Far below on the green valley's face
Lie steps of corn and sugarcane sweet,
I watch content, in mellow pace,
And feel the grass under my feet.
But already grows the sleeping grass,
And see, oh see the daylight pass.

She sits alone and silently awaits
For sound of footsteps on my way,
Creaking of that swinging gate,
And voices friendly,
soft and gay.
But evening breaks on the plain,

This day that goes won't come again . . .