Whatever my complexes, I am here,
standing at the brink of something blessèd
that I cannot yet see, describe or hear,
but I sense its draft wafting up, placid:
More loyal than I realized, I've returned
to this same lucid garden that was killed,
and I fully aim to uproot the learned
tendencies from this landscape rarely tilled:
A mentality is born in language,
and our jargon is a hybrid of times;
As stems dovetail in a bouquet and age
cut away from their native soils and climes:
So too do we die, cut off from our root,
so too do we flourish: abjected fruit!
urbansonnets 