Like glass upon my soft, cushion floor
they puncture my air born dreams...

I was born of the ashes
of your left shoulder...

She gracefully glides across the moist grass
you could see it forming to her feets side...

Yes, they invade
our twitter, facebook and instagram...

Slouching was never good,
for your back...

Hue of yellow mimics
appearance of its glorious...

Young and old,
short and tall...

Nothing but the sound of crickets,
pierced a darkened room...

... And then a canopy of colors exploded,
To end in total darkness...

Thy art the tiny spider
Living between the cracks...

What eyes intrigue me in the night
When all there is, is hooting owls...

*Vestal virgin: A young unmarried woman whose duty...
A humming tune sounds through the night...