The sun's blazing heat rippling through
The leaves of the tall oak outside my window.
I, sitting here under the fans don't feel it.
Nature is a stranger to me, kept away
By the harsh metal columns which
Hold up this society, keeping me in the shade.
Stranger to the heat.
Into the wilderness,
I break the judgmental glass and join my
Nymphs who dwell in the beautiful oak
Outside my window.
Feel, the confinement thrown at me by
Holding me in.
Showing me my unfortunate place,
So weak, so vulnerable.
The incessant chatter of the crickets, taunting
Abolish me from my natural home.
There stand the muse of our modern society.
Us of how we can never escape
The chatter and
The sun now disappears over the horizon,
the dew quivers fresh on the leaves.
The air stifling in this deprived heat,
The crickets chatter about the toils of the day.
I sit here, as I did in the early morning
with the sun.
As I have done everyday, inside my glass cellar.
Now the gecko glares, daring me to
break the mirror.
He doesn't stay long, knowing too well how
soft and timid society is -- in
the weathered face of Mother Nature.
The crickets taunt me, their cat calls
pointing out how desolate modern society
Or inevitably, always has been.
My yearning for the heat of the summer air is peculiar.
Why trade the comforts of this life
for the untamed?
Envious am I.
Huddled for warmth.
Mighty seraphim's dreams.
The danger of an open mouth,
The Tempest of the dunes lingers.
No longer able to etch
Hands stretched out,
the sun's smile lingers.
The wind's silken touch,
beckon on the
Toes at the ready,
the sun scolds.
the meadow disappears.
the grass unchanged.
a lone spot,
the pebbles embrace.
There's that strange moment in
Time on a cold summer's morning
When you can see everything, but
There is no light.
Void of shade, the shadows
Melt seamlessly into
That epoch where everyone is
Awake, but would never admit for
Fear of the eminent catastrophe
the ripple of their voices would
There is something ungodly about this hour.
The nebulous light piercing the shadows, cowering before
the turned corner.
Fluorescent spheres making their visions known.
His hands aren't too soft like yours.
They're a little calloused
His fingertips are cold. but,
when he holds my hand and gives it a squeeze,
or plays with my fingers,
or just holds it in between his hands,
I forget everything,
and that he's sitting next to me
-- with my head on his shoulder and his hands holding mine.
I told you,
like I told the one before you
Despicable things that hurt me,
And I avoided them to save myself from the pain.
Then he came along,
With his sonnets and kaleidoscopes.
My eyes opened to a world only he could show me.
His lips parted as if to tell me what this world was.
You didn't listen,
Just like the one before you,
And I knew you wouldn't,
Yet I fell for your sonnets and playful touches.
We would do well to wish that this he
doesn't become another
My head falls
to the pillow
Even in the night's dew.
it's all imagined.
you're not here.
we decided that
(or rather, i did).
We hugged this morning.
Breathing, as innocent as
The bee hung about our heads.
The only one who saw such an embrace.
a stolen moment
where our hands locked,
only meant to bring you forward.
We were going to explore.
— The End —