Meditation

Mon Oubliette

Lying on my back, I pluck at smoky roses -
incense sweet and silky.
They smell like time, and old love;
breathing dreamstuff in the silence of
dragons
or
dragonflies.

Creation and recreation -
my thoughts are dancing from a
smoldering orange ember.

Why do the good die young?

And is it memory
that evolves
into experience,
or the other way 'round?

I don't
recall -

Old souls are curling,
yet between us
we can only forget.