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 Nov 2020 eleanor prince
caroline
pony-tailed playmate
head tucked in her shirt
gazing steadily down
at her toes in the dirt

chaos tiptoes around her
naive oblivion
journeys in far away lands
just west of the meridian

watercolor fairy tales
bleeding outside the lines
unaware of the danger
unaware of the signs

let me sit with you, darling
in the dampened flower beds
and paint a new world
for us in our heads
Autumn questions
with no immediate answers

gradually denuding
to reveal skeletal branches
penning their script against pale skies,
writing of the sharp tongued winter
lying ahead
 Oct 2020 eleanor prince
mikarae
sing me your inspiration,
so that words may blossom
through the rings of the tree
in my paper.

gift me your passions,
so that pathways may carve
through inked rivers
and graphite daydreams.

paint me your love,
so that I may palette
your rainbow
and color my canvas

with my favorite colors of you.

the soft pink
of the inside of your lips,
and the offset grey
haloed through your eyelashes.

tiger lily freckles framed
by sweet peach
and wallflower blushes.

rainfall wrists
and dutch cocoa silk.

all my canvas needs
are the colors of you.
acrylic affirmations and watercolor whispers
Garden gate yawning open, you step out into a world that hasn't quite awoken
The sleepy light of dawn to warm you, the morning dew cool on bare feet
I dream of walking in the Earth's gentle arms
Before she stretches off her sleep
In this quiet sort of patience, the world seems so at peace
i miss when i was younger and i would just stay up all night and go for a walk at dawn and everything seemed so silent
a glimpse of
what might have been:
the candle
and the blow

pacing the floor
mind filled with nighthawks
stomach with bitter pills

snow on the window sill
--the long winter
of our love

it comes out of the blue
like dead reckoning

thoughts of us
unfinished

a hand withdrawn
the final wager on goodbye
I write the words that my heart cannot speak.

The words your eyes will never meet.

The words my mouth refuses to greet.

The words my thoughts serve to my mind as a treat.

The words that are hidden beneath.
The light of the manifest heaven is, alas, as a breeze in the middle of the night.
The hellish blaze of former times still resonate in my heart.
Knowledge is as a copious fountain in the Earth's riverbed,
And wisdom grows on every vine even if it dwells upon the dust.
The measurement of time is the only level left between the people of the world.
Seeing clearly the brighter side
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