"the dusk's demise"

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Have i loved myself enough

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It smelled like smoke burning out
of the books she read on fondness
washed and breathed

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the spring and the fall
midst the heart of wall
the questions and call
what is it that riddle to all
a truth over a lie
night, above but a sky
twiddle and a tie
or a diddle worth try

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Maybe we all are not too alike

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She wrote a poem
named love,
and erased it
out of love.

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Leaves of my tree are falling,
one by one, the green one, the yellow, and all those pale, too, all touched the ground in denial, bruised from days

Leaves, falling out of season, unaware of the known,
Who will read the stories of those dead leaves,
Buried silently within the fertile soil of customs?

My leaves, once bloomed bright, are no more green, the elated senescence now empowering them to days two one.

Leaves of my trees are falling in spring,
Yet they choose to call it autumn

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And she tried to sleep
on a buoyant love

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She departs daily
from idea
you told her.

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Perhaps maybe she will get drowned in the ocean of deep iris, where the floor will be left untouched enough to explain perhaps buoyant force of this love.
While she will catch herself again offshores, the tides will jangle in loud.

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