the sun is a gentle hand whirling
softly past the opened windows
and I am a lonely furniture
sitting still beside restless shadows.
shall I give you my silence and
come back with fledgling beat?
or be fastened with the riot of the masses
pummeling the iron and striking blindly
like a palaver hurled in the middle
of the midnight riddled by stars and
nothing else? stones enisled conspicuously
like the hands of a mother have well-placed
pavilions into their order, the careful crunch
of trees in Summer, filling the brim of ornate eyes
with such redness hazily festooning the avenues
with the lissomeness of the Earth
little girls dressed quaintly on Sundays
the fragrance of mildew everywhere
you against all the surrounding scenes
that break vases, pound the halls and leave doors
opened, yourself crawling away
dragging along the weight of your own shadow.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 1:46 AM UTC
the sun is a gentle hand whirling
softly past the opened windows
and I am a lonely furniture
sitting still beside restless shadows.
shall I give you my silence and
come back with fledgling beat?
or be fastened with the riot of the masses
pummeling the iron and striking blindly
like a palaver hurled in the middle
of the midnight riddled by stars and
nothing else? stones enisled conspicuously
like the hands of a mother have well-placed
pavilions into their order, the careful crunch
of trees in Summer, filling the brim of ornate eyes
with such redness hazily festooning the avenues
with the lissomeness of the Earth
little girls dressed quaintly on Sundays
the fragrance of mildew everywhere
you against all the surrounding scenes
that break vases, pound the halls and leave doors
opened, yourself crawling away
dragging along the weight of your own shadow.
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