Philosophy Metaphor Poems

Her spring returns to me, in death,
I shed a tear, alone, 
for the weeping blossoms,
in the knowledge a moon will rise again,
before the rhythm of...

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"The beauty you see in me 
--is a reflection of you" :-)

I want you to cut out
a paper heart, of any hue

Doesn't matter if you're...

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i heard he was a lamb disguised as beast but
some say it's the other way around
he awakened in the east from a night's rest before
heading...

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I take in the morning's last breath,
it's fleeting hour, surrounded, 
by little whispers of thought,
I swear, will lead me to where,
the rivers run too deep,
but,...

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We often remember there is always a tomorrow
Through resonance of beautiful songs of sorrow,
For then we know our struggles which make us grow
Are only emotional,...

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Stop biting thy tongue…
all it shall bring is a taste
for self destruction
as the sanguine
beckons it’s spirits
and spits
down thy lung.

...

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Weaving Work I

                      ...

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   "A crescent dahlia floats, birthed in decay ~
            midst emerald ferns,
...

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placing a pen upon the desk
aligned with paper
grooves of wood and knots in stain
as if absorbed in thought and mind
they seep from below 
as if...

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When I was a child, I wondered

Was deep sleep, death?

Was every morning a new life, a new incarnation?

Waking up, I found the people around me...

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Aged man walks on the busy street
Beyond his ability to cross
Cane in hand, old friends he needs to meet
Delayed by rain, worried about loss

Earlier, he...

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Dusky, azure sky looks down
The ochre earth awaits you
Near and dear have a deep frown
On the deathbed, you know too

Time is coming pay no heed
To...

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do not look for me
among gravestones by black attire
   once chiselled ergo sum
but instead a mother’s arms
a womb from whence laid cobble stones
I...

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Magnolia hearts need not be brave,
For their tickets are only one way,
Routes unchallenged, straight to the grave,
I’d rather chase the vermillion fray. 

Though, that is...

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We wander through so many gardens,
doting robins, ignoring the crows.
Our personal oasis is an unfinished poem.
Plastic flowers may last longer, but their dead scent,
cannot compare...

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