History May Repeat Itself

I notice a new word everyday;
They keep blocking my senses,
Or will they rescue them?

I am collecting the garden
Petal by petal;
So that my lap will ever smell of
The redness and the greenness,
And some wanderers.

I am knitting the never known;
I am kissing the unknown;
And they are loving the new known.

What will happen to the moths,
How will the fingers running down
The candle breathe,
If I die?

Probably moths and butterflies,
Need none but the one in them;
Wanderers will find a new garden
In the lapse of my funeral…

And my words…
I am waiting for them to form
A letter: of blooming and withering flowers,
Of sun and earth,
Of night and stars,
Of eyes and wine,
With a sprinkle of thorns.

I will keep a shadow for every pulse,
Till my room smells of years,
And my blue roses dry,
And the music gets strung to my background.

Stale is not the story;
Weird may fit my pages;
But the one that writes the
First line is a Transition.

A sculpture once formed
Will not like a twin,
So I pray for the birds to
Forget my fictions,
And dive into my diaries.

They may find a woman perfected,
Closed in her petals again.