Verdant as young ferns
Your eyes embrace my beat heart
I am home again.
We were flowers, twisted ‘round each other in red thread
speaking soft words under soft rains – hard park benches
pretending we didn’t love what was in the other’s head.
We were flowers, one flower, ‘round and ‘round in red
lipstick that stained and teethmarks from words left unsaid
We were pacing old trodden paths digging old sodden trenches
We were flowers, cut at the stem bleeding love bleeding red
Speaking cold words in floods, sitting on lonely park benches.
is my favourite word to speak
though I never say it often
my voice does injustice in poor technique.
Understanding still eludes me
but I suppose no one can comprehend nature's finest grace.
My favourite music is your accented voice and soft heartbeat
and the best painting I ever saw was that smile spread across your face.
You're graceful, adorable, smart, and strong
And I know with you is where I belong.
Seven drops of rain
sliding slowly down a windowpane
creating their own currents out of chaotic sky
perambulating through the reflection of my eye.
Two collide and five remain
slipping through a beige, unsuitable frame
reach the bottom and seem to die
my watercoloured conceivances drip but never fly
Trickles become one pool - a picture I can't explain
but within dark waters, a swirling hurricane
those tears kiss distinction goodbye-
surrender to let my disordered painting unify.
— The End —