What are we,but children wrapped in time and still patience,
ascension of duration and climate and colours.
pretty circles, spinning infinitive,past street lamps,dim glows
bright against cold darkness and steam from mouths hesitant
to speak in chill. Tight scarf,arms clamped possessive against chests,feet shuffling
the awkward Autumn dance to walk fast,walk away,walk wild
against chapped lips,goosebumps and clear air that pulls minuscule hairs
and airs. And childhood reminders,bonfires and gloves and bright red cheeks,
posing as memories for yesteryear and pumpkins, grotesquely shaped.
Not great,
not perfect.
Perfect is the sodden leaf,swollen with rain shimmery in the gutter, simultaneous steps. Nostalgia,the creep of the wind against windows shut,home an escape, the fire flames flickering in eyes wide for wanting.

I think Rain is the weary humanitarian.
She’s the voice of reason,drowning the world in throbbing anger with watercolours, smudging pavement and hesitant minds. Not tears, or sympathy, she’s yelling for us in pristine drops of impatience.
Wake up! What are you doing?!
She whispers so loud, she’ll tear us apart,ground swollen with her heartfelt anger. She hates us, really. She’ll erase us away,no laugh on her lips. Just the rat-a-tat of old typewriter keys and maleficent moisture.

“Eyes closed,departure of this world”
the soul sighs,sat up,smiling in the shadows of the sleep;
that paints pictures vivid in colour, in the eyelids of a person.
Subconscious,self conscious,sadly selfless,
awakened is the quiet form of humanity, the essence of sincerity,
the solution of simplicity-the soul. With quick fingers, spinning thoughts
dreams,gossamer cobwebs of truth between sides of a stirring brain,
soul stops-smiles,stares,scowls,
still,soul returns, takes hold of heart chained to the body, an empty vessel,
silly, somehow scary, as if a hollow puppet taken prisoner by something of purity,
of honesty, The Soul.