Summer's surrealness -
a dragonfly in space,
stars aligned in perfectly circled shapes.

Craving the tingling
foreboding sense of of cold -
burning fingertips, auburn smoke.

Autumn's delight - fiery
colorfulness, adorning
the piny mountainside.

© fey (24/07/22)

The summer light does not touch me.
It shines in delicate rivers on the brightly polished stairs,
where the gelatieri stroll with sweet iced coffee,
unimagined, oblivious.

The summer light does not touch me.
It brushes the children, who - in growing flocks -
chime their laughter atop neighbor's doors with delicate knocks;
bell-bright bicycle bells ringing.

The summer light does not touch me.
Twenty-three forty-four; peripheral car brake light coming forth.
The first leaf sonorously breathes “Goodbye; I'll leave”
and at last it creeps up, a swift cold touch -
the autumnal welcoming committee for my July melancholy.

© fey (24/07/22)

I see my kins dancing and laughing in unision
but I crave the silence - the forgotten sound of reverie.
Am I a part of their worldy communion
or is my world simply a lonesome treachery?

© fey (10/07/22)

Fairytales deliver less and less
the wry lovelorn's real wretchedness.

Whereas reality never competes
with a fairytale's alluring heartbeat.

© fey (19/06/22)

tw: sh/scars

i trace the white lines outside
as they trace me from within
like unfinished brushstrokes
they end on the canvas of skin.

© fey (07/06/22)

Rays of mik-white porcelain
covered her delicate fingertips -
as she painted the vast sky
a crescent companion.

© fey (05/06/22)

On a rustic bench there laid
a single cat of dire age.
Between lushful green she gazed
longingly into the distance - as if
far away she would catch a glimpse
of home to reside in irides of an amber lynx.

© fey (05/06/22)