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Myra Apr 2016
Take me to an arboretum
Where we can stroll down cobblestone paths
Take me to an arboretum
Where the beauty will erase the rains of our pasts
Take me to an arboretum
Where the oak and weeping willows will dance in the wind
Take me to an arboretum
Where we can kiss under flowering magnolia blossom limbs
Take me to an arboretum
Where we can dance under the twilight
in a gazebo overlookibg a pond
Take me to an arboretum
Where red roses and butterfly bushes make my heart so fond
Take me to an arboretum
Where we can have a picnic under the birch trees and maples
Take me to an arboretum
And my love will always remain
loyal and faithful
Patrick Austin Oct 2018
My backpack ready for anything, I left for a voyage across the pond. As fellow passengers climb aboard I met a 27 year old traveling musician named Russ carrying his cajòn. He told me of his travels from Massachusetts and pending divorce. We related on this and exchanged CD's. Behind us sitting on the Ferry were two young girls working on a puzzle. Russ imposed himself and tried to impress them with his musical endeavors. These girls were in America from Germany attending college. One was 17 and the other was 18 but I am sure they knew better than to play into his hand. After talk of language and culture we disembarked. Russ invited me to his show that night but I had plans to meet a girl at a board game pub. I walked to the bus stop while smoking my pipe and caught the number 40 from downtown to a trendy neighborhood up north.

After I stepped off I found myself amongst the overgrown players of games and drinkers of fine beer. Brittany arrived and we chatted over IPA's. I explained my recent challenges to get the topic of divorce out of the way before we left for Mexican food. She was very open in saying I should play the field and not have a serious relationship. I agreed with her take but could not read her as well as I had hoped. She said I need to get the rebounding out of the way and explained that she too is struggling with commitment. Being 34 with no marriage or children under her belt she feels that therapy is essential to figuring this out.

We walked to our happy hour destination and shared Nacho's while drinking "Colorado Kool-Aid". Both of us having spent a lot of time in Denver we could relate on much but I felt there was an elephant in the room. Afterwards we walked to a nearby record store and browsed while talking about music and interests. She needed to leave soon having obligations to housesit and watch pets. Dog walking is her profession since her departure from the world of corporate accounting. We walked to her unkempt sedan and she gave me a ride back downtown. We talked of hanging out again but our schedule may not permit for some time. I wonder if she will entertain my company without reservation, only time will tell.

I decided to phone my old friend from Denver who lives near and devise another plan for the evening. The sun was still shining and I had no reason to return home yet. I walked to a nearby brew pub while waiting for him to meet me. I sat at the bar with another traveler named Dave. He is an airline pilot close to retirement from the state of Texas. We talked about my time in the Navy and my pending legal woes. He's been proudly married for 30 years and counts his blessings that he is still in harmony with his wife. My friend decided to meet me at a concert in close proximity to my date with Brittany. Once again I would take the number 40 uptown. Dave bought my IPA and gave me words of encouragement and complimented my persona. It meant a lot and I thanked him as I said goodbye.

While waiting for the bus I asked for information from a woman in her early 50's. She works for a tech company nearby but was happy to help as I had a more pleasant vibe than most of her young, urban, unprofessional colleagues. While unsure of my way she directed my move to get off at the next stop. I walked up the hill another seven blocks to the show. While smoking my pipe along the way another bus rider was two steps ahead named Nate. He was curious about my pipe tobacco and we gave brief anecdotes about ourselves. He offered to buy me a quick beer before my concert. I took him up on this offer as we walked into a nearby market. He purchased several large cans of domestics and afterwards we headed back down the dark boulevard towards the Abbey drinking our brew. As I arrived at the former church venue we parted ways peacefully.

I ventured into the bustling scene concealing my open container while finding my friend. I sat just as the opening act started. We enjoyed three musical performances but the star of the show was the beautiful woman from Denver that we both enjoyed during our time there. Feeling that we should explore the venue where Russ was performing we made our way there. I was sad to discover the brewery was shutting down before 10pm and the band was long gone. We decided to walk to the nearby singles bar playing music so loudly it could be heard from a block away. This strange place was crawling with many folks of the beautiful sort but nothing seemed to be attractive about it. We had a glass of wine and a shot of bourbon. I spoke to the fellow DJ for a moment but there was no dancefloor to be found. We decided to venture on.

We walked up and down the avenue and discovered another Mexican food restaurant, beaming with the young and the foolish. Our community seating was met with overly affectionate couples to our left and valley girls to our right. Our Tequila mules hit the spot with our Nacho's and late night platter. The girls spoke of Denver people which I thought strange. Why so much co(lorado)-incidence in one evening? I injected myself into the discussion and was met with friendly conversation. Unable to finish my Nacho's I knew I had fulfilled my share of fun for the night. This was the fourth time I had eaten nachos this week. We proceeded back to the urban adventure wagon and made our way to the slums of the tech-boom. My 2am slumber was met with an air mattress of great quality and woolen blankets.

I awoke at 7am to the clouded sunlight peering through the sliding glass door. I laid awake with my stomach turning from the many Nachos not yet digested. My housemates called me about needing to move my car for restriping the parking lot. Fortunately I left my keys so they were able to do this for me. I smoked my pipe on the patio while my friend "hit the gym". When he returned we decided to walk through the arboretum by the university and enjoy the sunny autumn day. Afterwards he dropped me off by the ferry where I waited an hour drinking beer at the commuter dive.

During my ferry ride home I walked up and down the passenger compartment looking for a fellow rider to play cribbage. I had no such luck and headed for the observation deck. While the city vanished behind us I struck up a conversation with a young lady from Manchester who had just returned to living in the US. We talked about the nature of selfies and the conflict of living in the moment. As we spoke a man approached me who had overheard my request for a card game. We walked back inside and sat next to an abandoned puzzle with pieces scattered about the deck. Mark introduced himself and we shook hands. It was not until he shuffled and dealt the cards that I realized this 45 year old Asian man only had one arm. His ability to shuffle and deal was impressive. His skill with cribbage was more than rusty, after one game I had a victory so great I felt guilty. He too is going through divorce and seeking a new job. It was a great way to pass the time with a fellow passenger.

As I readied myself for the porting I noticed a familiar face, a young sailor I served with in Mississippi. Our time spent together was met with sorrow as we faced similar career challenges. I had not seen him for several months but he almost did not recognize me. I had lost 50 pounds, left the Navy and become single all in a matter of a few months. I assured him I was on the dawn of newfound joy and wished him luck on his upcoming deployment. I patted him on the head as he seems like such a lovable scamp to me at this point. I exited the terminal to saunter back home. I smoked my pipe while crossing the bridge enjoying the last hour of sunlight.

I settled my belongings at home while serving myself a can of chili and a cold IPA on draft from my housemates tap. I joined him for the end of a baseball game in the den and shared a few moments with my community. I slept for a couple hours and then made my way to work. So much can happen in a day.
Not poetry, but what is life, if not poetry in motion?
RKM Feb 2012
The arboretum watched her grow:
each day the wood-chipped path
would creep in through lace holes
and scrawl its earthen signature
upon her socks.
When she could walk on her own
the rustling blows tugged
the secrets of the leaves through the hair
she refused to fasten;
so it danced, rebelliously
on her shouldered landscape.
The labelled trees, landmarks to tourists
on the nottinghamshire tree-trail
linked outstretched arms in solidarity
around her when she froze on the bench
to skip the dining hall.
And the birds of paradise
who chirped in minor a lament
of their chicken-wire palace,
understood, when no one else could.

When they drained the lake to search
for a body,
and the parched park cried leaf-crisps
in red and orange, they were warned
from walking alone
and the grass stretches ached for
musing students to sprawl
chatter on its back.

When the time-dust sprinkled a veil
on the rumours and caution,
She appeared
taller, and hand in hand
with a boy.
They tried to decipher
the war memorial and it's message
in foreign symbols
for something to talk about.

The Arboretum has not seen her for
years,
but its crafted script
Is carved like wax in
her mind's journal.
Cinzia May 2018
It was an arbitrary day
at the arboretum
the ferns were all wondering why
a rash of rogue rhododendrons
were roughing up the azaleas
while mighty magnolias stood meekly by

A patch of tiny cyclamen giggled girlishly
while witch hazels waved green wands
and the willows wrung their hands
and wept and wept
'cause they knew what was really going on
Oddly this had been deleted. Not by me! Hacked?
ghost queen Oct 2018
Our first date at Rise
Holding your hand at the Firehouse Theater
Eating bagels you brought back from Montreal
Having lunch at Salata
Going to the Arboretum
The way you peeked out children’s house
Cuddling on the couch
Watching Game of Thrones
When you fell asleep in my arms
Drinking Amaretto Sours
When you would be silly
The sound of your voice
The maraschino cherry stem  you tied with your tongue
The Forget Me Not Flower Kit you gave me
Exchanging texts
The sound of incoming WhatsApp messages
Diner at Howard Wangs
You wearing bunny ears during Easter
36-28-41
When you posed for me
Your blues eyes looking up at me
Seeing your smile
Touching your lips
The way you smell
The secrets you would tell
Showing how you care
Hugging me tight
Letting me take care of you
When you cook Arepas
The gluten free Clafouti
The time you had the flu
Wearing Calvin Klein underwater
Your dainty feet  
Your goddess like figure
Your cute accent
Typing in the door bell code
Hearing you answer
The emoji of puppy heart kitten

Knowing you are my Bijou
Calling you Minou
Amelia Sapp Nov 2022
the arching arboretum anticipates my alliterations
telling too timeless tales of Latin language
binomial botany begins by being barbarously bleak
dioecious dogwoods dance doing dainty droops
leaves lie lamely, larking like sweet starlight shine.
i was inspired to write this because of my botany class
RKM Mar 2012
Each day the wood-chipped path
would creep in through lace holes
and scrawl its earthen signature
upon her socks.

Collared wind blew
the secrets of the leaves through a tangle
of whistling hair

The labelled trees, landmarks to tourists
on the nottinghamshire tree-trail
reached to her
when she froze on the bench
to miss the dining hall.

birds of paradise
chirping in a minor lament
of their chicken-wire palace
understood,
only.

when they drained the lake to search
for a body,
and the parched park cried leaf-crisps
in red and orange, they were warned
from walking alone
and the grass stretches ached for
musing students to sprawl
chatter on its back.

then, as seasons cast a veil
on the rumours and caution,
she was
taller, and handed
to a boy.
they deciphered
the war memorial's
foreign symbols
for something to talk about.
Casey James Nov 2013
We watched the vapor trails pull like shoe strings across the sky
my hand holding yours
the acid bubbling in our brains
the threat of death not yet present
our fears not yet concerning our age or wisdom.
We feared one another,
afraid our flaws meant something
uncertain of how people talk but we tried anyway
and the skin of our arms were touching
and it was warm
and it felt like it was supposed to
and no one could touch us.
Ambika Jois Nov 2015
I stand here
Awaiting your touch
Free me forever
From my crutch
Take me away
I’ll join you in your freedom
From days so achromatic
Preserved in an arboretum.
Allison Wonder Jan 2020
Strolling through the trees
of this beautiful arboretum
I spot a dozen butterflies
and stop so I can meet them

They flutter around my head
one lands upon my nose
is this an Angel visiting
the answer no one knows

I receive soft kisses
as if a whisper from above
I can feel the tickle
most of all I feel the love

Then a breeze comes
through the trees soft yet brisk
the butterflies take off
elegantly yet swift

So I continue my walk
through this beautiful arboretum
then stop to enjoy the flowers
would you like to know what I see in them

Pinks, yellows, blues and reds
so many colors out there
and lots of smells in my head
so tempting to pick a few to wear

But I leave them in their home
making wonderful pieces of art
but now I must be going
as the sky is getting dark

I shall return again tomorrow
for there’s so much to see
maybe if you would like
you could accompany me
Martin Narrod Dec 2015
there's a place for this- this blood
this place where the skin can be pulled right from the lip
a gun pulled from the glove compartment
in warm December this private affair
traveling with passenger zero
into the title of a love song or
narrowing into the wet corners of the mouths
softened annunciations over an early sixties recording

her song brings shakes to legs and swiveling snakelike movements
this Spanish river goddess I do not even know by name who settles the wars of babes and covers the infinite dust of infinite children

there are places like this:
still and magical and pleasantly mute

where she stares back to me returning
the years of eye mail exchanged between us
as if returning a floral arrangement that lost its scent
or a novel that lost its story
and a passenger writhing with envy

with a back turned she moseys
along the dirt path of the arboretum
a small dance in the bowels of her step

somewhere we blend the stories of each other’s pockets
mending the balance of need
hands surfacing in weathered bluejeans
Brant Dec 2023
Curved branches and winding vines
Impose it's corridor
On the surrounding woodland,
And readies my heart
To see you again

As I walk,
The surrounding trees
Drop the last of their leaves
But your presence
Turn fall into an arboretum

The silence of the woods
Grow dense,
And the chilling wind
Cuts through me
As we near one another,

But I am warmed
As you stand
Waiting for me,
My sweet lover
taurus Apr 2018
Fallen leaves
in many hues
lying everywhere
in the water
on the grass
blowing to the breeze.
Whispering songs
over the crickets
and the gurgles of the stream.

Songs of the fallen leaves
of coming wisps of winter
cold winds under autumn moon
and memories of warm summers.

Fallen leaves
in many hues
singing many songs.
Timothy Ward Oct 2016
A poet struggles
While mockingbirds entertain
The forest echoes
Man v Nature The struggle continues unabated.
Steve D'Beard Aug 2014
We have bulldozed the Garden of Eden;
we are nothing more than a parasite with an unending appetite
for destruction in the name of civilization.

Our monstrous monumental achievements can be viewed from space;
we are the cataclysmic legion, the unbeaten ******, the demon of freedom
with the desire to demolish and impoverish the last bastion arboretum.

We are mad and frenzied in our passion;
we are the phantasm assassin choking the very lungs we use to breathe
the misanthrope who carves materialistic thrones to sit on and wait for exalted death while we replant trees in self-centered glorification of hope.

We are doomed and we know it, but we still don't care;
we question science and bemoan nature for wreaking havoc, stare into the microscope looking for answers in the reverent appliance of defiance waiting to find the sparks to eternal life there.

We are the envy, the mistrust, the sadist and the snake;
we squabble over the scraps of apple peel and douse ourselves in ice cubes
whilst far away some African child walks 50 miles for a sip of clean water
we are the plague of mistakes broadcasting hurricanes to entertain.

We have bulldozed The Garden of Eden
now only the snake remains and there is no escape
freely offering the apple peel to those who obligingly accept

our epitaph will read:
humanity stepped back
to be overshadowed by an ape.
We cut down the forests, we fill our seas with plastics and oil, we release harmful gases into the air, we deplete the ozone layer, we ignore climate change and fresh clean water will be a commodity in 50 years.
Connor Feb 2017
Palms burst forth
   In whistle tones

a fountain has its face relaxed
  the marble body of lions
  exhibiting a quiet African pasture

your blonde hair wrung though with Summer light/

       Suddenly, a communication of harpsichords
       in our chests relaying to each other softly
      
We cannot understand it, with the exception of a hum which
measures thru us

    now the able instrument of love,
so to converge and eventually

        The warm vicinity we've forged
forgets the rest of the boundless
terrain which created it
Shelley Jul 2014
The first was taken before we ever met.
My sister: curled beneath insulated blankets,
a pink bow vaseline-glued to her bald head,
glassy infant eyes turned in the direction
of a picture of me (red striped shirt, my favorite overalls,
velcro shoes). Mom taped it against the outside
of her incubator; so she would know her big brother
even if I wasn’t allowed to visit her yet.

The second shows the two of us at the back door
of our house on Circle ***** Drive. Her palms and nose
pressed firm against the glass as she peers out at Whitney,
the cocker spaniel who became an outside dog
after knocking her over one too many times. My hands are tucked
under her armpits, and I’m using every ounce of my
three-and-a-half-year-old strength to make sure
she don’t teeter back onto her diaper-cushioned ****.

The third, a candid from the family trip to Islamorada.
She and I are walking down the pier, on opposing sides
of Ganga, each holding one of her soft grandma hands.
She was our buffer for those eight days,
and years following the trip. We face the sunrise–
electric pink sky dotted with periwinkle wisps.
Later that day, my sister asked me to come look for seashells
with her; I told her I wished I had a little brother instead.

The final, from my college graduation last May.
My sister and I are laughing in the arboretum.
As excited as I was to never again sit in Hamilton 100
or bubble in a Scantron, I was already missing
eating pho and reading poems, making her matzo ball soup
when her throat hurt, and trekking to the taco truck at 1 am.
Neither of us knew then that I would have this job and this desk
with these four photos, and room for more.
Carlo C Gomez Apr 17
~
Cotton duck canvas
on careful days
in a closed room,
intersecting tension,
energy and interest
for strangers to interpret

Three bashful belles
and lovers of art
undressed as a figure study,
cloistered together
in a line of beauty
for moral support

Their congregation assembled
in glorification of
angelic landscapes,
tempered by the mysteries
within convexity's arboretum

In unequivocal parts and gradation,
where good posture
and graceful presentation
count in equal measure,
to create Hogarth's
line continuous
--the Analysis of Beauty,
bended at the waist
to spread light through the canopy

During such exhibition
the belles whisper
under the rose,
of war and shopping lists,
they seem to avert eye contact,
gazes fixed to
the eternal sphere
ticking on the far wall,
never directly into the eyes
of those who come to
paint their *******
with sandalwood

~
B H Jun 2012
Meet me,

Deep in the arboretum,
Between those majestic orants,
Praising the sun and air.

Wait under that crumbling arch,
The one whose body shivers
At the first touch of wind.

Sing softly that succulent tune,
(The one that blurs my eyes
with thoughts of home)
So the wind can whisper your arrival.

Do not take long,
Or you may miss me.

Time, that ancient thief of youth and vigor,
May clasp his knarled hands around us both.
And we many never become free from him again.
Tom Shields Aug 2022
Trickle, the freshest water
falls
sweet, cold, teardrops
fresh from the pale pedals
fever-kissed by the dew
never know a gentler mist
painless, this frost
fell
write
please read and enjoy
Ellie Stelter Sep 2015
it’s been a night for the books
one of those times when i just
hit the ground running and forgot
how to know when to stop

now i’m riding out the edge of my last high,
working on some way to live forever tonight
at peace with where i’ve landed
proud of how i’ve handled it

driving home alone through the arboretum
rain-smell coming in through vents, and him
barely in my head anymore, shadows
of trees waving through the windows

i won’t let myself become a god
to some kid in a grown-up facade
i’m not perfect or powerful
i’m not here to be beautiful

there’s been girls and there’s been boys
and they’ve been real or they’ve been toys
but i’m letting them all go, murmuring
i won’t let myself fall in love with remembering

i want it to stick with me like those dreams
that threaten to burst the sky’s seams
hanging on my shoulders all day,
washing the real world away.

i want them to see the universes i hold in me,
i want them to need what i need,
i want to wade into the water waist-deep
and never come out, just float in the sea

as soon as we’re apart, their voices crescendo
like tidal waves from far away and long ago,
vibrations that I know are real,
but no longer care to feel.
Mason Webster May 2012
And again I found myself laying underneath the sun and above the shattered oak leaves.
Dressing the ground on a cold Autumn day, these tiny vessels carpet the woodland floor.
I find that we can learn much from the leaves of the trees and the grass of the plain,
I find that if one looks close enough, we really are no different than even these leaves.
Daily we’re swept off of our branches and blown into countless differing directions, parting
Parting from one another when our time is decided, knowing not to where we fly.
And just like these leaves, we are truly simple beings, varying in color and size,
But all coming from the same root.
You see I’ve found, by only watching the leaves of the trees and the grass of the plains,
That once we come to know our roots, the directions we take are no more valuable than the petty pride we often carry.
So here’s the deal you see, I really don’t have much to say, so listen close.
No one person is better than another, no one person is more important than some other
And this is so, because our roots are the same.
As the leaves of the trees and the grass of the plains of this earth in which we inhabit,
We must come to realize that our leaves are not what matters, but the fruit we produce.
We must come to realize yes, that without healthy fruits of love and peace and kindness
Our tree is but merely a sore sight to those looking upon our arboretum from outside
Anna Aug 2016
you could store water
in the wells dipped deep
into my neck where
your grip once was.
your hold is too strong,
its weeds choke my lungs,
steals my own words
to replace with your own.
I was your garden
and I felt your hands
uproot my ugly, but you
took the flowers away too.
I stand now, an arboretum
of almosts and painful potential.
you leave me barren so
I have nothing to offer,
nothing of my own.
I wait to claim back
myself, all that I have,
and I am almost ready.
Kristen Hain Dec 2016
What a fool to be afraid of falling
Asking for reassurance as though I needed more
than response, a hand held, a kiss planted
drunken nights and sober days
"If love is not passionate, do not participate"
What a fool to not have trust in yourself
a foot hovering above a pool or
Pacing thoughts trying to ride a skateboard
Trust yourself, but do not trust him just yet
but what a fool
To be say it is as though I haven't fallen already
18 flights of stairs, each individual bump
From every single height we have watched the world from
The cliffsides of the Appalachians
The 1800s towers of Bowman
the landscapes that connect beach to sea, wondering when we'll reach over there
An abandoned building east of the city enamoured in fluorescent light
A skytop birdsnest of an arboretum
from the back of old Reggie staring onto pavement in warm summer rain

I fall from such great heights
clamored on each step,
I do not know if there is a bottom
but I surely hope not
mark fishbein May 2018
I found my bench in the arboretum
In a lush corner of the conifers
Where I can be all alone for hours
All alone, my back against a plaque:

         In the loving memory of
            Herbert M Parker
                   1984

I sit on his shoulders so to speak;
We read, we dream, we nap,
We name the loud birds above us
After our favorite opera singers;
Herb and I love to discuss Big History,
And his time in the great war.

When the spring comes
I serenade my friend
And play from Bach for beginners
On the classical guitar-
Herb is an expert in the baroque,
But also has a great feel for samba.

He’s getting a bit run down, you know;
His legs are halfway in the soil,
His skin is spattered with moss.  
Salamanders live in his arm rest,
Ivy and dandelion poke through
The slats of greying wood.
But I say nothing: we are soul mates now.

Somewhere in the black earth he lies,
But I feel his body is right below me;
Somebody loved him enough
To place him here with loving memories
And pass the seasons with a stranger.
Dave Robertson Oct 2021
Mist chose to linger a while,
though mild air belied October.

Overwhelmed by birdsong,
loud against the abstract silence
of these adolescent sentinels,
stood like arboretum trees
filled with the gravitas
of no age, no age at all.

The year passed as always
with them growing taller,
bolder, a little more aware
of wisdom’s cost
and the one they lost.
Jamie F Nugent Mar 2016
She always dressed
In the saddest shades
Of gray upon darker
gray;
She only felt comfortable
In gray,
Sleepy and paralytic,

Scanning her life through
Black, white and the gray
Photographs
Of Marilyn,
Of Charlie,
Of John,
Of Paul,
Of George, and
The other one.

She kept her smile well hide
Under her gray scarf.
She, the gray coquelicot
Who bloomed in the arboretum,
Where the roses were gray,
And the violets too,
She felt at home and sweet.

-Jamie F. Nugent
Alex Salazar Oct 2017
When all is said & proved.
& those close, are quick to run.
Clarity will beckon lose,
&  sink like kingdom-come.

Tendrils of peace
Fiery rings of freedom
This onus is making me prune,
& i have lost myself in a reflective arboretum.

The anthesis is the self, humiliating disaster.
Argumentations are made in the night to keep away all those laughing *******.
sins are sins are sins are sins are sins are sins
failure creeps aboard,  and  my patience folds thin.
Andrew Kelly Apr 2020
Guarding an abundance of ages past and to come;
Outside an ethereal arboretum of
rustling sugar maples, green ash leaves dancing in the wind,
scarlet berries burst from the hawthorn branches.
Were two golems, anchored to their post.

Long green blades grazed their shins,
Discipline echoed off their clay skin.
A path submitted between them
As if the dirt beneath them was at their whim.

The constant breeze caused their skin
To crack, the pressure of perennial purpose
Created small canyons on their skull.
The scent of honeysuckles escaped their open crania.

No matter what approached their garden
Gargantuan locusts, pillagers in the shadows,
Nothing was stronger than the grip of
their hands melding into one another.
i apologize as i do not know how to speak in the Hebrew language. it should translate to Wood and Iron
Todd Monjar Feb 2020
Slithering, angles, winding and slow, traversing on a macadam conveyor belt, grounded and merciless. Time is considered, possibly coerced only to sneer relentlessly back through clouds of vapor and weary destinations.

Rivulets wandering on paths only known to their past; chaotic and dear with ravishing certainty. Arrival pending, souls eager for movement; interrupted by explosions of juxtaposing steel and hulking imposition.

Frightening suddenness balanced with settling calm; anticipating a glow of tunneling grace and beauty. Merriment abounds surrounded by bursts of dandelion puffs; a glistening mountain stream light and alive, scented with decades of sandalwood and jasmine.

Bright and coolness hunkers into dreams of sustenance and allure, pleading back cloaks of ambition and tarrying the morn into a lull of sedated warmth.

Bursts of neon washing waves of brushed slate metal; contrasting a backlit gloom that is congealed to a muted, unadorned precipice; that risks away oversaturated hubris into a disaffected cadence.

Pureness and wonder, dancing into jagged edges of gnawing rawness from a jaded journey; slaying dragons and languor from a somnolent arboretum.

A rosepink flush derived from a psychedelic prism; and a renewed animal heat, transforming a singular urgency to a pool of mellifluous nectar.

— The End —