Rusted FlowersFrom her heart’stear-salted soil,rusted flowers grew.A serrated beauty;wounding all those who bent near.

When it rains,the world softens around the edges; streets and sidewalks become a liquid mirror onto which lights and colors bleed.When it rains, everything becomes beautiful . . .for a while.

Wild creatures somehow knowwhere they must go, but we—we humans wanderthe paths of confusion.Trying to be so many thingsother than our true selves.

Exquisite beautyis often hiddenin life's fragile,fleeting moments.

Sometimes poetry is a way of finding beauty in the chaos; a flower growing in ruins of love's wreckage.

Still Held"Words seem so feeblein moments like these.Life is so precious,and death such a thief.The depths of your painI cannot comprehend,but I'll stand alongside youin the darkness, my friend.Love is a bondthat death cannot part.Gone from your arms,but still held in your heart.

Who was it that hurt you, stole the light out of your eyes? Cut a hole in your heart and let the love drain dry? Who was so damn careless, to leave you with such scars? Where will you find healing? Right here, within my arms.

Do you believe in magic?" she asked. "I believe in you," he said. "And you're the closest thing to magic that I've found.

Scrape away the rustfrom these jaded eyesand let me see againthe wild wonder of life;to know in joy and painwhat a miracle it isto feel anything at all.