Poetry

Rain, come again,
full of promise & truth.
0Endless onslaughts on my garden
have damaged the trees of light,
destroying my butterflies in dark.
Death was my private thing,
moon, come again.
 
 
Deep in my throat
a cuckoo sings for a queen of darkness,
to invite the mists & clouds,
I cannot speak for now.
Ancient history is repeating the story.
At dawn the shadows are gone.
 
 
From unknown to unknown
a thought moves
impinging the landmarks.
I pick up the nameless pebbles.
Time crashes, death and life play a game,
memories wear the grey
costumes of fear & pain.