Every day, I play with
the light of the sky.
The lust, the lack of trust
and the turning tatters
of my life.
How sad the sea must
have felt, when we departed.
Like an octopus, tentacles sliced.
Still longing for those rustic
baskets of kisses.
Yet, as the sun rises
you are still here.
In the wind that whirls
the dark leaves.
And in my rice bowl,
laced with your heart’s bones.
So, I send you my words,
teasing you, touching you.
And will tell the octopus,
that everything lost
will be recovered,
soon enough.
A Wandering Poet 