far off, in a lick of a breeze

I had a feeling, a lick of breeze:
She would see me sleeping,
She would hear me weeping,
Far off, in a lick of a breeze.

but air drifts tighter my window, yes

of motion
side, wind, side
tell us no
handsome ghosts
hands on males
age of doing
south with note
use a napkin
be proud
carriage pulling dog
apocalypse
past hard screens
but air drifts tighter my window, yes
painful dust
ashes
contents
second last
trick gone
steep tomorrow
one perstep a’night

Sidewalks

I’ve seen them passing there,
walking as if they’re ghosts.
Arid thoughts in fertile air,
but who’m I to say so?
 
Their looks I sometimes snatch
to pause them in their passing.
In my eyes some life to catch,
but ghosts have no use stopping.
 
Might the ghosts be brought to living
if my stares were made of death?
For in what heaven would they be drifting
when their end they’ve already met?
 
I find my ghost in wond’ring
on life, those moments past,
for my ghost is always foll’wing
and I’ll never know how fast.
 
Still, my life is made of living,
ghost-like in white lies,
blessed for not forgetting
the heaven before my eyes.

Disorder

"In pure disorder
a unique set of natural laws
would exist.

Chaos — present
with order
only then exists."

Our state of being
is made of
this truth.

Our complicated nature
provides us
with choice:

Will you live
not knowing,
or a part of it?