siesta cinquain

a sign,
of the bare spine
that used to slumber here,
when nights were long, and love was sheer,
and fine

cinquain 2021 i

plum trees
never ask why,
when the deities please,
their buds, in the blink of an eye,
must die

mordant
silence bubbles
up in our folded throats
and peace, that elusive soap, floats
away

no key
on your person,
freezing under a tree
endlessly praying for someone
to come

The wings
that carry us
shall rot away one day;
we shall fall if we are not taught
to fly.

butterfly

pale pearls,
like muted moons,
beam beneath coffee curls,
as a mellifluous voice croons
old tunes

scandals,
from mouth to ear,
waft slyly by candles,
whilst tipsy minions strain to hear
cheap smears

tanks creep
through silent street,
for we have gone to sleep,
and cannot wake up to defeat
the fleet

beware
of comrades who
consciously withhold their
company when hardships halt to
hurt you

flowers
bandaged in rime
fall on barren bowers
as a chapel bell meekly chimes
the time