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annh May 21
t r a i l s
of light-glazed ephemera
w      a      f      t
from plain to hills;

*G i l d e d*
grams of silken
warm with pine
and noon.

p i t t e r - p a t t e r s ,
D a N c E  S t E p P i N g
the length
of a polo field.

‘Is not this a true autumn day? Just the still melancholy that
I love - that makes life and nature harmonise.’
- George Eliot
Jenish Mar 9
Grape vine held out her soft hands
Red pine bow down and hold hands
Will they care not my shy look?
Love in dark woods that thrive lands.
Ode to the road.

See you and your rivered mind.
Sought out in cyan.
And cry for the drift in your eye.
Made for.
The groove.
The tremolo in your pace.
Rose hue to your face.
And the sea to your shirt.
The one you got in Olympia.

Garrett Johnson.
I should've died.

Hands held.
Old leaves.
New sounds.
I fell.
Those eyes.
Those eyes.
Those eyes.

Garrett Johnson
Beautiful friend.
Give me a place to put myself
I await on a storefront shelf
Give me a sole to lace with mine
The one for whom my heart doth pine

I miss the face that I know not
I'm blue like a forget-me-not
Just thinking about you
Wondering what you do

I love your eyes
Your hand in mine
I hate our goodbyes
And waiting for signs

You are a vine, and I am your rose
Loving you wholely, right down to my toes

I don't know who you are
But you cannot be far
I will know you someday
At least, that's what I pray
Paper rats in the walls.

& Like the life previous.
I sense them once more.
Clawing at the inside of my brain.
But the floor.
They wine in cancerous heat upon my door.
& Leave my wall into a galaxy of a corpse.

Garrett Johnson.
On fire in the front row.
And her kiss had to throw me.
annh Dec 2019
Summer’s pine grass moves in sway,
Flat-backed on hard earth I lay,
To watch the wind walk.

‘I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars.’
- Walt Whitman
Bede Sep 2019
Fell for pine eyes,
Dressed in red, my sorrow,
Oh stricken down thy arms and thighs,
Never forget i'm the pine in his eyes.
I really need to stop using this app as a social and just exploring, I find things i never wish to find
Chris Saitta Aug 2019
A pine forest is the hand,
The soul of the palm fans out in fingers
Like the clayey striations of the sun.
The forest has no sound but the bonebreast
Wandering round of a similar hand,
All but shut now except for the unspoiled nest
Of browning needles and the ancient realmless mound of love.
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