When we were a seed,
we imagined ourselves as a shoot.
When we were a shoot,
we imagined ourselves as a bud.
When we were a bud,
we imagined ourselves as a flower.
When we were a flower,
we imagined ourselves as a seed.
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What Remains
And here at the end of the cliff
Is it bluffs or breakers at sea?
They visit now only in dreams,
Awakened in a mad sugar rush.
Should this name only the beautiful,
Or is it all just a confidence game?
Family would take you in spite
Of what had been said or not.
Too fragile to touch, too blond, too red,
So long as blood still flows to the brain.
[Disposable Poem May 9, 2013]
Dr. Mike
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