Susceptible to root rot
When one stands on grounds
Often of a bog
Where old dead often surface
Only to invoke curiosity
Yet you can just stand
Amongst the peat
And the slush and slime
Forever lost
Irrelevantly, for being new
A species of a tree hardly relevant
For I am just another
Like many before
Irrelevant , regardless
Undisturbed

You

Some days I miss you
For the air is still
Undisturbed by your vehement annoyances
Yet so welcome
Some days you drive me to the point of psychosis
Just by your impossible nature
Challenging me, burning and curdling my  blood
Yet those are the days I feel alive
In your absence the the blood freezes
My brain suffocates for a reprieve
Wanting to be disturbed
Wanting to breathe
Such is your presence my love
Unnerving, nerve wracking , yet one that livens
Towards an otherwise disconnected soul
You are my paradox
From my search for calm
Yet happily so
So eagerly as such
You make me believe I am alive
As I cuddle up to your sleepy form
I smell your hair
It is but my own childish form
My own soul , brought into being
By a universe that silently chuckles
Of having triumphed over my arrogance

Into stardust

Stand still
Look beyond your point of view
Are those stars as they seem
Some dead long ago
In this vastness all that they are is light
Once passed , only to be a darkness
Some where lost as I am
Like your love for me
That has basked me , only to have faded
For as the observer believes its existence
You wanted it to be
Yet knowing it was all but a passing
Though between you and me
Do either exist anymore
We are stardust , all of us
While you hold on to the admirable socialistic dogma
I have been scattered
As I should have been
Into what may someday be a burning ember of a star
But know that, if you must
I would burn just as bright
Like every other
Past the red shift
Past the collapse
Of the red dwarf
To be one with the universe
As its entropy ends in chaos
As it has now, in a chain of permanence
So shall your dogmas and conservative thought

Rustling leaves

In her yard
She rakes the leaves, sun dried, crispy, browned
It's summer
So she knows, from her yard covered by these
Yet she yearns for the spring
Which has passed
Often she stops, looks around to answer a calling
It's her name she hears
Yet unsure if it's her ears or years
Yet she does turn
I as always sit at the gate
Atop, in a hazy form , watching
As she turns around seeing no one
For the gone never call
Yet they may, but maybe they don't seem as audible, or at all
Maybe the heart has ears to a soul
Its dusk
The sun has reddened the skies
I sit regardless at the gate
Watch her go about her chores
Her wrinkly hands, putting things into place
And her beautiful greys
Flying in the evening wind
I would have floated along the breeze
Yet how impossible it is for a ghost to feel
So maybe the only solace is to sit
Watch her turn the lights out late night
Falling asleep .