This is not a poem

When someone or something dies, it dies
It turns into ashes but not a poem

Recent Posts

Where I was born was a planet Round as an orange As I sit in front of a rectangular window Staring into the flurry of sunlight Pouring...

My pen is laced with the sound of birds chirping in the moist air of March. Sitting on a bench in my made-in-China and Japanese-designed...

What lasts in this world when nothing lasts at all? Is that to say we can ignore the mundane aspects of life for the sake of passion?...