It’s
colorful rain, a cryptic sky, longing for morning.
We
groom for mystic, filled with twilight, a bit
nostalgic.
More for gray-clouds, and blue nights,
rubbing
a russet rose. I’m taciturn, sorting through
linen,
and washing sheets. Days are lemons, a sight
for
grief, tugging at joys. It’s up for down, otherwise
occupied,
to piecemeal facts. I think of light, to
enter
darkness, where aroma lives. There’s art for
pain,
a tender sigh, to nurture roots. I see her painting,
ignoring
woes, naked to winds; and less for hell, a
master’s
brush, to sculpt a plane. Its purgatory,
a
blurry thought, to slam a drink; and this is gray, a
slip
in time, analyzed sorely. I touch her, a calling
dream,
a topaz light. We flame tears, to find for love,
to
raise a garden. This for joy, a yellow wagon,
sprinting
through fears. I give for heart, ever to
stream,
knitting prayers. Its symbol for stars, a turn
for bold, and speckled wings.
