Flailing arms, love is another
story, only when the realization of being outcaste
does love reveal a hidden meaning, in serpentine ways
in rhythms that inveigle
and take you to the ways
people talk, babble, love
it is indeed a hidden word
searching it is moving around in webbed feet
and layers of meanings
which unerathed take you
not to peach blossoms but
infinity of time, wait, and
it is this nostalgia which bleeds, not red, but black
black as coal smothering a ridden heart.
