I'm going to miss the trees that don't have leaves.

To write freely

of course

without shame.

6 o’clock in march.

growing wings...

dropping bombs...

accepting defeat...

realizing there is no such thing.

Risk. Fear. Risk. Fear.

Black against grey

or was it black against white.

Against, that is ridiculous.

Clarity, void of battle and petty games,

that love stems and

lasts

for a moonlight.

But by noon I just

taste a memory.

And when was memory

anything more or less

than imagination.

This must be where trust

becomes the truth.

Or fails.