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dane-johnsonPoems
of the wind that speaks multitudes abounding creation that decries its mournful existence fluidity of a falling leaf dwelling of inhabited space posterity of the pompous calming blues describing the waters of high noon reflecting on perspective qualms of my imagination nightingale flush internal beauty of the highest decree flaunting tact simple pleasures of breathing caress my hand, i’ll touch your hair the blue of mine eyes shines unseen in the night erstwhile noticed of syllabic manifestations furtive felicity, comely for the homely murmurs of softness love is in the air i spy, with my little eye, a pond, rotting with life. a sea, devoid of meaning, as seas are triangular pencils scratching away out-dated calendars that hang on a peg papers that bind us to our word word that is bound to the papers thought that is trapped in letters letters formed into words assembled into phrases spoken from the mouth bingo is the lingo burning brightness of blithering baboons, begone. smiling is more than showing teeth gone are the days of yesterday, tomorrow is near, and yet, never here. the present of what is that now was but is again oh, do you ever wonder about the life of an italicized comma?
0
Dec 12, 2011
Dec 12, 2011 at 11:11 PM UTC
falling ever so vivaciously
of the wind that speaks multitudes abounding creation that decries its mournful existence fluidity of a falling leaf dwelling of inhabited space posterity of the pompous calming blues describing the waters of high noon reflecting on perspective qualms of my imagination nightingale flush internal beauty of the highest decree flaunting tact simple pleasures of breathing caress my hand, i’ll touch your hair the blue of mine eyes shines unseen in the night erstwhile noticed of syllabic manifestations furtive felicity, comely for the homely murmurs of softness love is in the air i spy, with my little eye, a pond, rotting with life. a sea, devoid of meaning, as seas are triangular pencils scratching away out-dated calendars that hang on a peg papers that bind us to our word word that is bound to the papers thought that is trapped in letters letters formed into words assembled into phrases spoken from the mouth bingo is the lingo burning brightness of blithering baboons, begone. smiling is more than showing teeth gone are the days of yesterday, tomorrow is near, and yet, never here. the present of what is that now was but is again oh, do you ever wonder about the life of an italicized comma?
dane-johnson
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dane-johnson
Dec 12, 2011
Dec 12, 2011 at 11:11 PM UTC
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