But so?

Scenes spiral from a singular girl:
Endless streets,
on sky-backed grey
Closed-down bookstore,
brooding in symph
And then a sunbent crest of joy
me and my nymph

I ruminate in shape of submission
Teasing sets and stories that never were
See, she held me through the rain once
but this you know she never did
She sang inspiration to a quivering child
but me. the child, would have hid
She sidles on the by, glances aside
as I transmute wants and memories

Such confusions breed bonds
and it pushes prudence putrid
It intrigues my restless needs
now held, both in confluence
What a grievous dance!
as she takes me to her bosom
So many moments fleshed out so full
it burst apart an aching heart

As night turns dark, she turns to me
she chats in weary discourse
Now, it seems, nirvana speaks
Delighted without syllable
Or so mt mind would have
Or so my heart would make it
But so?
...
I do not want to break it?

Capri

Child, she sees
The glory
on a subtle white paper
She kneels
In a kitchen parlor
amidst queer looks and remarks
She Closes her eyes
A closure to the world of ours
Fully shut to sight
And soon
She rolls away the lid
A child's protection
to the unlimit beneath ignorant sunny eyes
She wakes
Eyes missing
In replacement, a captured luminescence
and under close inspection
the concentration of worlds
a black hole of creative loads
Lifted to such elevation
through the sight of this littlest one
Timeless now,
She bleeds
eyes and ears and mouth
pour forth the sepia of a thousand spirits
the ichor of untouchable character
to spritz and flay a subtle white
into a calm white horse
outlined in grey crayon
Horse sufficing this ulterior God
She stays this capricious maelstrom
Ceases this magnanimous ray
Unwinds the play
She sits
Indifferent
Untouched

Hold

The glade of dreams
Hovers close it seems
Like stormclouds curling
and silently whirling
Draping scenery
With unwieldy energy

But here in my home
Of ivory bone
Dark callings come hence
And I wince
As hordes claim holding
to the plaster and molding
Which I've waiting wanting since.

In the right connection
Flush with star's intention
the hold comes back to me
And the inhabitants, they flee
So there I will slump
to articulate misery.

Forgive?

First forgive for a break in poetry. This does not happen often.

Next forgive for my recent expenditures, I like this topic. I love the color of sundown over the pacific. 

Finally forgive me for I wrote six poems yesterday that I will never share with anyone but my Anisha. I have even forgotten them myself.

Normally withholding such works, to me, seems like burning them, especially if I didn't collect them to myself for future analysis, but recently I've been taking a hoarding mentality to these works and I think that causes harm.
Therefore, I chose to deny myself these works. Otherwise, I write merely for myself, which never does right. As I say, "Art does not begin with the self, it begins with everything else." I selfishly ask you to quote me on that. 

Decent descent

Afterglow like an aftershave
sighs away from source
it flies away smooth
It spreads to soothe
Powerful but without force

Grow me a sage from the furtile age
Ruminating in the soil of grace
I say this the light flat to my face
as the sun smarts it's downside race

So the sage grows within me
Unaware, unabashed
He hoards great sights
both heavy and light
Till his spirit settles to ash

Now furtile as first he knew
A sunny sail on tides of dark blue.

Many sundown savories.

Oh, the thinly-stried strings
bound relentless
Full of endings
lapse to nothings

In a glow highlighting woe
like the flush of scars
these straightwit beams
Brew here from afar

Cut, they do, from the medium of shadow
A dance of tired shapes
and softening tallow

Earth turns with reluctant rate
weaving orange
like a heart of burdened fate
Swathes of flame
glaze the tides at sunset
and the tide flows out
to silence, for once, this upset