Just for an aeon
I am left, in this moment...

Look how the moth swapped
its withered yellow wings with...

How heavy and how
impatient is the river...

Every now and then
a poem coiled in scroll of an acumen...

The darkness in me
is as vacant as I am...

At last
my bloom is withering...

Last petal on a rose,
last rose on the season's bough...

I picked the apple,
took a bite, crushed in between...

Ephemeral things
are burning so, in search of...

We keep on going
for we are not really...

We appreciate
what we have had right after...

We sculpt
because we are looking for perfection...