The bare nakedness of the attire, she adorns;


She’s bred into reality, by her necklace of thorns.

In her eyes, madness! Each fleeting moment,

A brand new tale, as a trial for her hearing;

Her futile attempts fail to cradle to silence

The baby evolving, in her eternal bearing.

Thus a kingdom of a breed, with the Queen in exile;

A tear trickles down, a concurrent widening smile!

Of This…


Transforms me into something

Much more magnificent and sparkling

Than both my objective

And subjective realities,




Like whistling breeze

On a cold, cloudy autumn eve,

Blows into me the spirit

that you and I,

Despite owning an abundance of what most want

and some work towards;

Have experienced a dearth of,

In many eras of our lives.



Is a life in its own right,

A ritual in its own doing: the knowing,

The knowing of itself

 in its purest existence,

A yearning for more,

And at the same time

A still gratitude for the known:

the sure.