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| A Journey of Despair |
My darling one,
there is no room for misfits like us
in the land of milk and honey.
They are closing down the border.
My wayward mistress’ eyes—
shadows fall across her wisdom
shaped by aged gurus of the East;
flung aside, she lies by the river
shivering with doubt and fear.
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| The Director's Dark Cut |
My impulsive child
astride a white swan,
gallops away from Parnassus.
Calliope is incandescent.
 |
| Toxic Love in Unravelling Worlds |
Once, I was a poet.
Now I scribble garbled words
for pennies that no one ever reads.
The master will not redeem me—
I rebelled against the teachers of the metre.
 |
| River at dusk, echoes of grief, and loss |
At
the
twilight of the day, we meet
in the silent garden of the obscured.
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| A Face of Despair Behind Rusty Lens |
“An old Brownie Box camera becomes
a mind's prison where memory fades”
I'm captive in a prison—
a Brownie Box camera—
old, rusty, silent.
It is locked but I cannot—
—or perhaps I don’t want to—
remember where I put the key.
Do I even have the key?
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| Poems of Despair |
 |
The rivers surged—first blood.
Your naked scent,ripe red strawberries in June,
bread and wine on Primrose Hill.
