you make autumn misttaste like champagne and turn winter raininto the elixir of life itself.

I wonder at the starry pattern in the skyAre they little pieces of moon which want to fly..?

The gilded spiralOf longings within.Our very own cathedralThat points persistently to heaven.

Butterfly upon my hand, A voice of wonder within my mind, not my own but the butterfly's.

I do not write to you, but of you,/because the paper that we write on/is our perishable skin.

My pond life with hydra is over; now I’m into the ocean world of poetry to dive deeper..

...my heart is a desolate field over which geese vee, the sky turns and the days lie fallow...

Hands. Cheeks. Eyes. Lips.Neck. Ears.Thighs.Heart. Soul.Ahh!the things I get tosavor you with.

wordslike mysterious mermaids come and live permanentlyin the soft sweepsand scars of my skin.

The searing light of morningAsks unwelcome questions,Fragile hopes soon blistered by daylight.

Is it possible to write a poem or are these words just screams of outlaws exiled to the desert?

Arrival in the world is really a departure and that, which we call departure, is only a return.

Asia is an entertainment, Europe is a dream, America is an imprisonment and Rest is a nightmare.

So, the world happens twice--once what we see it as;second it legends itselfdeep, the way it is.

You crawled inside myribs to die. Giant becomes squirrelbecomes a dirt-wet girlfeverishly alive.