When I die, I hope I don’t see a bright light,
those give me headaches.
I don’t want to stare into the garish sun,
the same color that ignites the spark of life.
I want a calm blackness
like the obsidian night sky, kissing me goodnight,
the same color that coats the back of my eyelids.
Or a serene blue—
the same color that crashes up against the rocks
I knew so well,
framing the ocean I used to call home.
Anything but a bright light.
No loud noises or tumultuous thoughts
just me, my colors, and utter freedom.
When I am sad, I go to my garden,
and plant myself in the ground.
The warm dirt fills my lungs and as I expire—
I feel at peace.
Death, you see, is not always a tragedy.
Maybe it’s what opens you up to the beauty of the world.
To die as man, is to resurrect as a swallow,
a sparrow, a willow, a tulip once more...
Seeing through you,
Where has your love gone?
Was it ever there?
A magnolia tree,
and a locust
on a sweaty summer day.
Purple is an odd sounding color,
and orange really doesn't rhyme with much.
Pink isn’t the right hue,
and red is too common,
but when partnered with an azure sky,
they make for a godly sunset.
The sun sets—a rainbow chromolume
of color and light
framing a feeble figure.
Like a grain of rice, so insignificant to you,
yet so much to me.
one gust of Mother Nature’s breath
and you flitted away.
Seeing through you—
no end in sight.