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A field of primroses freshly blooming gleams in bright yellow under clear blue skies Yet something's off The nightingale is not singing A beastly roar tearing the spring air What horrid creature is this with the force of a bear magnified by utter madness blasting cities into pieces spilling blood of foe and friend alike Betraying his own people to fight their next door neighbors while all they want is to live in peace and hear the nightingale sing again

"liminal" we dreamed, once, of sanguine streets in cloud cities– our wonder wandering, hearts on winds aloft, airy eyes surveying sidewalk bagatelles; limns of cumulus blooms like light wildflowers on a breeze: a swallow's song and sounds of sweeping cirrus streams. recount the softly spoken summer days, i, the rain, your reticent plume, enthralled under these eaves of poetry– unmoored, your magic in vapour; no pangs at the mention of certain meteorological events. your magic whispers a wind, sail us wherever you would like to go. i can still see the contrails we left, feel a lingering warmth of the time we spent, fading. you can't collect clouds, though i try just the same. to keep this one pure thing that was salient, until at last i can't remember your name.