.
Mighty palette
in the sky.
Feast of pastel colours
of sundown.

Nestbound birds
sang up a cry.
Alone I sat,
grass-crested mound.

Inhale a breath,
exhale a sigh...
Pocket of bliss,
peace on earthly ground.


.

The words weren’t daggers.
Weren’t meant to ****.

They were spindly,
like needles.
But barbed.
So they latch.



I’m not grievously wounded.
Yet I’m still bleeding out...

.

from the western sky
drifted in promising clouds
yet they held no rain

the sea sings its august notes,
curtsies and prances like
a two year old colt,

believes that the wind
forgives its cold voice,
rises and falls –

its icy engines strong warriors
battling beneath the clouds,

its flowing barrels voices
of gossiping steel.

if the stars are falling,

we collect it like it’s all ours,

Putting it in a glass bottle like fireflies,

to spark light to where it isn’t

to be vanished when it’s morning

their ignite has gone,

by opening the lid

you’ve seen the welts,

on the inlet of your wrist,

to leave mark to where it shoudn’t

to not be vanished when you’re mourning