To read a map―
listening to your inner voice, for
changing the green color
of eyes.
I was studing you,
in the caravan of desert,
leaving the roots
going nowhere.
I will wait for the fall
to pick up my crisp, memories
breaking off from―
the sad trees of life.
Stepping stones were
beautiful, not the feet. I might
have erred in draping the
people who were fake.
Sometimes you mourn
the vision of dying moon.
It will not bleed―
till you cry.