Alone

Alone,
I create the perfect pose,
I’ll sew a bounty of unheard prose.

So proud of my cups,
so magnificent
Ornate, but filled with discontent.

We look for toads
and kettle bearers
and the quenching kiss of wayfarers,

Who catch the drops
of saccharin rain
In hand formed vessels thrown in pain.







Love does not pour from Grecian urns
But is the absence in what we believe,
Embrace all you have
and are able to give
than all you’d hope to receive.