i.
at the edge of a dark sky,
where the framed door
lies closed and the
rain’s smooth octaves
gather the last lonesome
heart-beat of the summer in
its mists that tap the door,
ii.
the grey air,
cloud-drawn, straps
its satchel to its back
its stones the silvers
of a silent moon,
iii.
its stones sombre and smoky,
the dead of night,
a crimson king
a blossoming flower,
iv.
where the night’s slated
roof listens to the rains
urgent rushings, silver
and shaded like a storm,
words of the air
sinking back like the
desolate waves that hush
the sands as they drown
their sorrows in baskets
conjured out of the breath
of the grey-eyed night.
v.
you kiss me and i start to
swoon, i swoon like a garden
rose that climbed once to
the sky, a garden overgrown
with the quiet of apple-coloured
leaves, the summer with its vines,
its leaves the bright rain drops,
its leaves the visions of the air.
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 12:51 PM UTC
i.
at the edge of a dark sky,
where the framed door
lies closed and the
rain’s smooth octaves
gather the last lonesome
heart-beat of the summer in
its mists that tap the door,
ii.
the grey air,
cloud-drawn, straps
its satchel to its back
its stones the silvers
of a silent moon,
iii.
its stones sombre and smoky,
the dead of night,
a crimson king
a blossoming flower,
iv.
where the night’s slated
roof listens to the rains
urgent rushings, silver
and shaded like a storm,
words of the air
sinking back like the
desolate waves that hush
the sands as they drown
their sorrows in baskets
conjured out of the breath
of the grey-eyed night.
v.
you kiss me and i start to
swoon, i swoon like a garden
rose that climbed once to
the sky, a garden overgrown
with the quiet of apple-coloured
leaves, the summer with its vines,
its leaves the bright rain drops,
its leaves the visions of the air.
