slowly and silently the trees grow
watered and fed by the earth

a fragment.

i wish i was better.

at something.

sit by my fireside- dont mind the gas flames
let them flicker and lull you.
see my reality and hear my tale.

i'm not a writer- no, not me
i 'm too tiny to stand out in a crowd.

don't open my notebook, dont read that
poetry for now is dead.

i've filed away my confused ramblings
even archived, they hang heavy on my soul.

transpiration
like tears on my
window.

they failed, the haiku did
and something within me has died.

rejected and dejected
the I.

sporus, that thing of silk
that delicate white curd of asses milk?

flipped and flopped.