Mr. Sadako

He sat,
with his knees bent and crossed,
like it was something natural to do,
like he was origami.
The folded paper man
remembered a story
of a thousand cranes.
He wept as the wind pushed
and threw his body across the park,
like tumbleweed
in a thunderstorm.
The tears kept
as the torn paper man
became a thousand pieces
and blew a wish

Is this how?

She wants to be forever forgotten,
so tonight we shall oblige.
Reveal the crashing fountain
atop a river named for carving mountains.

There could be a better place to be
a perfect fit for imagery
instead of a simple rhyme,
metered whine, sipped last time
because I wanted complication
of the simple - exaggeration
lost to a quest to find
the perfect truth left behind
in the pause it takes to inhale.

The ink changes,
but the truth remains.
The star shines
despite the clouds that hover,
giving way to a mist lover
amidst grass, leaves, trees,
roots that cover
memories.

Losing phrases from gestures,
by jesters teasing with letters
fleeing without rhyming footprints.

Running away from change,
the selfishness remains.
Tranquility as sacrifice -
burned at the pyre,
disguised to be wise.
her spirit cries -
"I never lied, the actions were mine.
but leave the ash to scatter.
Maybe they will resurrect and rise."

Time will tell.

Beginning

I lie when I say I want to talk to you.
My love, the truth is
I want you to talk to me -
ask the question,
beseech my namesake,
request the response I spent a morning practicing for.
This life is a practiced answer,
with so many maybe's when asking to step over
a descriptively indescribable place-marker;
a touch despite breaking fingertips.
Each begged answer erodes sensation.
They spot the sight with ashen memories.
Look away! Let them scatter
and the mind ramble about true existence
forming from dissolved monotony,
Answers are monetary to provide for the I, but not the we;
the only way to see the path is to double an eye.
It’s not to turn into double vision
blurred into a beat, that cascades down
emotional remission,
slipping at intervals forgotten,
where these harmonics were whispers
of a suicidal goddess lost to the wind
by jumping headfirst...
cause it’s easier to exist as shifted pieces
than be responsible for the sum of your parts
to have an answer for someone you called your counterpart.
Will my words turn back time
to when my mind was raw?
Instead of overcooked,
instead of baked to perfection.
Self reflection turns to rhythmic superstition
Where an opening rhyme was a ramble
An offering, an inviting sample
Of a poet, liar, lover on a voyage to discover
Why I want to talk to you.