The
seasons are beige, a bit for desert, a bit for joys. I walk a secret, to voice
it here: I
live
with a lesion. The wound is grey, affected by groves, to feel it intensely; and
a bit
for
flat, unless for stirred, to float the beige; even then, it’s more a secret,
stated in private;
but
many see it, a bit unleashed, searching for answers; where all is secret, and
one says: “Confide in me”; and left to silence, a subtle study, given but all. I frequent a globe, to
nibble
for fruits, a bit for cautious; for lakes are fluid, a pair of dark eyes,
reaching for
peace;
where graves are stalking, shielded in oak, adorned in cries. We court for love, to
grip
for love, where love carries a price; and more for love, a river through a
desert, where animals nestle […] and yes to drift—a reality faint, as tangible
as cold water. The seas are
low,
the valleys wet, to travel a rustic field. Grapes are dropping, plus for
loquats, to share
a
melon. There’s autumn leaves, and auburn grass, a snail on a rose. I feel it
for risen, a
cousin
as ghost, a sister in heaven; and lights are russet, and cyan blue, for
turquoise
dreams.
We fell this place, a mirror as
judge, to bottle the grief; and more to live,
coupled
with joys, a blender of plums. I
watched an image, from plural—to isolated;
and
stars are blinking, where pigeons flap, and sheep are grazing. I love it, a vest of days,
to
wipe a tear; where letters form—to shape a vineyard, to stir for beauty. Its mind
aesthetics,
and Rembrandt passions, a song for repeat.
We touch a wave, and conjure
names, and tiptoeing
faith; and all for in, to share with few—the legacies of prophecy.
