"burgundy" poems
*in the midst of an emerald slumbering forest
laced with pungent scents of jaded wood
a burgundy blushed tail
of a chestnut hued fox
scurries as copper sunbeams part the day
a hospital lumes starkly nearby
its aura exudes hints of melancholy
commingled with faint impressions
of halcyon futures
not yet lived
at neighboring dartmouth
a student sprinting to class
drops his crimson colored backpack
the prospect of cancer
far from his budding consciousness
my beloved sits patiently
pondering pensively
his last chemo treatment
elusion of death
not far from his mind
i feign to fend off future catastrophes
watching letters scramble across my screen
earnestly writing
in a desperate attempt
to be with him forevermore
an aquamarine hummingbird drenched in tranquility
senses the inverse
its amber tipped wings stand seemingly stationary
while it steals a quick glance through the window
curious at chemical infusions meant to heal
my beloved walks out
of the austere building
with rose colored glasses i feel
that we’ll whirl on the tips of gilded stardust
dancing with another chance to fly
©2016janetaylor
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 1:19 AM UTC
First came the false presumptions of luxury
The gaudy glamour
Bright dresses and dark suits
Awkward glances and ****** food
Eventually though
The evening settled down
And then, after the smoking and drinking
Came 1 o'clock, the worn-out end of a hazy day
Suddenly,
It was a smother of time,
a stifling landscape of clocks
a decaying of darkness
The night gave way to trembling cold delirium
And slow and slow down
A slide from reality
Everything fell
I remember barely a glimmer- a hand, an arm, red sheets somewhere
Eyes that whispered "what's wrong with her? what's her deal?"
Or worse yet, faces that didn't care
To see me, my wrists
Appalling in all their shivering shaken chill dust
In moments like this,
I am nothing but a fearful machine
Broken in its deepest workings,
All function altered.
Clamors and tremors of panic
Withered illusions gathered at my feet like kittens
I tossed the blanket from the makeshift bed
Lay upon my back and waited
Watched, frightened, the night revealing
The hundred ignoble, vile images
Of which my thoughts seems consisted of
They flickered at bit- against the burgundy hammock
And empty Baccardi bottles
2 o'clock shook the memory
A crowd of twisted things,
Torn and stained and coiling about my wrists
I move by the sway of these thoughts that are curled around me
-The notion of some infinitely suffering thing
Oh I only need a lighthouse
To guide my soon-to-be shipwreck home
I only need a compass, a crucifix, a presence
But never
never to be found
the way
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 1:13 AM UTC
forged in the likeness of you
the whisper meanders in my memory bank
it dances softly on a burgundy velvet glove
that covers my wrinkled hand
it visits me in deepest dreams
and speaks in hushed tones
of the infinite days ahead
when we shall once again dance together
forged in the feeling of you
I live each day like the last
holding onto the past
like a cat with a captured bird
not allowing it to die
waking to the sounds of winter winds
and old favorites on the radio
the ones we listened to together
so many years ago
those years that forged a love so strong
that I rarely blink twice
without the thought of you dancing by
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 10:04 AM UTC
A simple cafe
The woman with the latte
I see her
Those peach pink lips
Your jeans fadded blue
Blonde curly hair
Skin so fair
Oh the things I would do
Across the room
Her Carmel colored skin
Brown long hair
Breast perked so
Coke bottled body
And you
Oval shaped eyes
Sun kissed freckles
so fun sized
Burgundy bleached hair
Suckulant grape lips
Thick curved waist
Coffee hazeled eyes
Eyes....
She pierced my sight
I glanced back
She knows I'm looking
My deviant thoughts
Tension rises
Three seconds four and five
I break contact I head to the door
Stumble
******
She's at the door
Our bodys touch
"Hey do you dance"
I so dance
Respond
"Yeah I do"
" well you should meet my boyfriend
He does to"
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 5:46 AM UTC
Life is colourful
But not in the way I'd like,
Its shades keep changing
From lemon to blue to burgundy,
Feels like I'm living
In a constant state of melancholy.
Tried hard not to stare
At the melody that kept swirling
In front of my eyes
And through my ears,
Sometimes I forgot breathing.
And it trapped me into the deep
Clawed hard to come up from beneath,
But it was hard to hold on
The walls were too steep.
Never thought I'd wish
For a colourless life of black and white,
Of boring creatures and ordinary sight..
Never thought I'd be the one
To want my seeds to sow,
To want my roots to dig deep and grow.
Maybe flowing with the wind
Is not for me,
Free-falling is not the same as flying,
Peter should leave me alone now,
I don't want to end up dying.
Thought I almost saw
Heaven from where I was,
But it lay barren
With no gates or guards,
Or even angels or gods,
Either the books or my mind are lying,
It is overrated to wish for dying.
But I made it through
Somehow I swam back ashore,
Fought the muddied waters that blinded me,
Somehow I found my door.
And to sanity I return,
With lessons and scars that still burn
It's good to look ahead with clarity,
It's good to be back to reality.
Jul 6, 2017
Jul 6, 2017 at 9:48 PM UTC
I may have gotten into the
stupidest argument of my life
it was about men painting their
nails
yes
men painting their nails
I want to paint my nails a
deep burgundy
because
well
I feel like I really don’t need
a reason
she said
it would turn my nails
yellow
I said
I don’t give a
****
she said
men don’t wear
nail polish
I said
I don’t give a
****
she said
she didn’t have any
nail polish
I said
********
I’ll go buy my own
then
when I walked
to the front door
with my car keys
she stamped her
feet and said
FINE!
and she walked upstairs
to her bathroom
where she kept all the
polish
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 9:26 PM UTC
All the colours, electric green
Rose and violet shades sereine
Crimson clover and loyal blue
yellow ocher, burgundy too
Take up arms- a graceful stance
to "Yeah Yeah Yeahs" modern romance
Yet all the colours and shades that be,
Could never truly release me
But prop me up- so I realize
the prusuit of art is faithfully wise.
Every morning and every night
I choose my pallet, scared to fight
But still I start for love and duty:
Passion and anguish, courage AND beauty.
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 6:08 AM UTC
I smoke every cigarette in the pack
long enough that the filters melted
and my lips blacken
like the nightsky,
when you stepped down
the granite staircase
in a burgundy bouclé dress
that radiated brighter than
the chandelier overhead.
All we ever had was enough.
Now I smoke to remember
the nights when the fog
followed us home
and the music of us
slow dancing in silence.
I pack my bags
and I leave my keys at your door.
You hold me close and you whisper:
"What the hell are you waiting for?"
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 12:19 AM UTC
I am the flightless pelican.
I’ve found myself with my mouth full,
my stomach full, and so much still on my plate.
Possessed by an inhuman hunger,
I will gorge upon pure potential.
I will yowl on and on, without sleep.
-
I have sand between my toes.
My shoes are glued to my feet.
Keep on running ‘til the calluses come.
There has to be a point where I stop to sweat,
and I’ll finally get my sigh of relief.
I have one ride left on my bus pass.
-
I have a tendency to ramble
and languish in my own stench.
People tend to forget this at first;
lured in by the false face of a genetic fluke.
They want to know the impression I left,
not the procrastinator; the cud-chewing goat.
-
I can’t sleep being held,
or if I feel someone’s breath in the still.
I start to feel the urge to burrow
into the quiet quilts; patchwork Promised Land.
I cater to the crowd that caters to themselves,
but I’m no Utilitarian. Fox and Lion.
-
I have cousins like brothers,
and I have brothers like strangers.
Stray cats with names
and a copy of The Mahabharata that I stash my money in.
I’m sitting on a sunny pier with my hook in the water;
avoiding conflict with no bait.
-
Paper cuts from the gold leaf
on the edges of hymn book pages
with burgundy leather covers.
These guilty cuts, bleeding for what seems like hours,
while we steadily forget that anyone was singing.
Alone with our thoughts in the crowd.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 9:54 PM UTC
Life is a puzzle.
Just like you and me.
Each day a note,
Together they make a melody.
Our life a puzzle,
A melody.
Each and everyone,
Another life, another story.
Black, white, crimson, burgundy,
Different shades of colors,
Lights of different intensities,
Life's of different meanings.
Some live for others,
Others for themselves;
Some have no clue,
Some just wish all was true.
Days pass like flipping pages,
A book opened and soon to be closed.
But after the story,
Still no one knows.
No one ever truly knows,
Never one found out the answer;
The real meanings,
Behind these beautiful melodies.
Many lives, satin ribbons,
fluttering Freely in the wind.
So much the same, similar traits,
yet all we see is Difference.
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 4:02 AM UTC
My lipstick
My lipstick a deep shade of burgundy
Traced outline of my imprint on the inner most part of your thigh
Excites me!
Thoughts leave me lingering rolling around in your bed
Kisses like foot prints of a path to your navel
My lipstick compliments your skin tone
He grabs the delicate
Splendor the curvature
Which is ***
Mounted upon strength
Switching places a dispiteous
Gaze of disambiguation and a subtle smile
Might be here for awhile
My lipstick
Smeared along your neck deep crimson
Leaves intricate detail of mouth on
Caramel colored skin. Sweet like a work of art
My lipstick traced outline on the inner most part
Of your thigh.
Written by MONICA CHRISANDTRAS HINES
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
To love a man that gives you the moon and all of the constellations,
this gift, I did not receive.
Instead, I loved a man who could create skies of jade and violet among any area of his choosing with his own bare hands.
To love a man that gives you a bouquet of twelve burgundy roses,
this gift, I did not receive.
Instead, I loved a man who could produce a field of golden pansies atop my right cheek with his own fingertips.
To love a man that gives you a kiss beneath a lantern string of lights,
this gift, I did not receive.
Instead, I loved a man who could shoot the most colorful of fireworks and streamers from the booming sound of his own voice.
To love a man that gives you a floral path from the door to a candle-lit room,
this gift, I did not receive.
Instead, I loved a man who could toss a book through the air and before it struck my skin, it would burst into pink rose petals with a clap from
the same bare hands that painted me jade and violet skies.
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 10:25 AM UTC
******* in you nose can do that,
This is the rosebush, the fuschia,
the striding spiderweb of summer.
Your trees from the ocean and sky,
and sepals turned sences.
A spindle-spinning wheel,
turning sunflowers to liquid honey,
yum - yum - yum !
Oh the tastes of nature,
hidden in burrow holes,
with small mice chittering their teeth,
through chestnut temples!
A crucified sunflower, soft-spoken ochre,
the pumpkins turning fields to dust
and growing seeds of castles.
Three blades of grass in
tasseled soil.
Three green-squash faces
among the fields burgundy,
growing eyeballs.
Viola splashes wave,
Palo Santo fragrance,
Filling the nostrils with
Happiness!
Day-to-day ecstatic twirls
Twists and twirls,
a steep staircase to
the waterfall's epicenter.
The soul of the falls tumbling
across the sealed creek,
oiled with the feathers of soils.
The queen of frozen loganberries
gazes with approval,
watching seperate streams congeal, spiral,
and form starry nights
beneath the sky.
Lime scent comforting
the ☀ of rivers!
Written by: Lotus and Simon
May 27, 2012
May 27, 2012 at 4:16 PM UTC
Love letters to every person who has ever seen the stars as someone's freckles:
1. You were afraid to love him. It was okay, he did not know much except for demanding what he wanted despite the word "no".
I want you knowing that you deserve better than half *** apologies and snowstorms for white blood cells.
2. She was your first girlfriend. Her hair reminded you of your mother's curtains in the living room. Burgundy.
She loved you but she had to go, I bet you wish you never hung that rope in your basement.
3. Everything was set on fire, even your lungs. You started finding ashes everywhere but in your shoes. Walk away
before she gives you a new meaning for saying grace.
4. By now you've had enough of religious boys. And Oh My God, how your hips felt like heaven.
This is all ******** and he always went to church hungover.
5. This time you've forgotten how to sleep without his breath in your ear. I think his name was Noah or something like that.
It was ironic how he didn't have two dogs, two cats and oh yes, that's right. He had two lovers.
6. You went crazy with him, he was so full of water. You thought you'd drown when he touched you, and you did.
7. You were so pale that I thought you were dying. This is a letter to myself to remind me to never fall in love with a boy who cares
more about putting his cigarettes out in public ashtrays than asking me how I take my coffee.
He was extra surprised to learn that I was vegan and only drank water when we sat in cafes.
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 8:52 PM UTC
sure, first we had the schism
of the church & state...
"oddly" enough...
we now live in the 2nd tier
of schism -
the segregation of
state & media...
no?
really?
we're not?!
i'm kind of enjoying
this ongoing schismatics -
the segregation of church
from state, at least left us with
the Vatican (i.e. the church-state) -
but this, current...
segregation of state from
the media?
**** me cram my testicles
into a monkey-wrench
and subsequently watch me laugh...
and there i was thinking,
that psychiatrists,
were the new priests of
the secular age...
prescribing the alt. to
the metaphor of cannibalism
in the form of big pharmacological
pills, to replace the wafer for
bread,
or the watered down wine /
grape juice of the...
so how does that party trick goes?
is that the wine turned into blood?
symbolically:
turned water into wine:
flag-wise...
white,
cardinal...
and then burgundy of
cardinal red teasing the bishopric
coloring of purple?
i'm not here to undermine
the faith...
i'm here for the self-deprecating
humo(u)r...
you don't even require
atheism to get a laugh
out of the conundrum -
you, simply need...
the deviation from the catholic
rites...
an apostasy -
but sure as **** it's there...
secularism has allowed
journalism a monastic status...
first came the schism of
church from state -
which remained intact in
the church-state of the Vatican...
so... FAIL...
secondly had to come
the schism of the state from
the media...
i'm watching a schism
take place...
apparently...
the comparative concern
of church's divorce from
the state was easy,
having imploded into the Vatican...
but the divorce of
the media from the state?
apparently... not so easy...
the media is already locking-down
on obstructing the schism -
arguing from an entertainment
perspective...
a century or so later,
and still, the persistent,
media symbolism -
of crafting caricatures of
a state...
as the state embodied in
nothing more than subordination
to its will...
media is the new church...
and if the separation of the state
from the church took so long...
how much time, do you "think",
it will it take, for the state
to segregate itself, from the media
baronage?
i suspect - as much time as it
took to segregate itself from
the church's cardinal-lineage.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 11:34 PM UTC
I rolled my ankle last month,
but didn't pay much attention
to the swelling because it didn't feel
like nougat flesh with a pushpin
center. It felt like skin, tendons,
and fishnet bones.
But now, when I make my bed,
I have to waste two or three
soft pillows at the foot of it.
So, I'm left with the burgundy ones
from the couch that I tried to patch
with boot liner and an eighth-grade
comprehension of sewing.
I stuck a rat's thimble on my ring
finger, so I could push the straw-thin
needle through the beefy seam.
No such luck.
Finished the stitching
with a Band-Aid beneath
the thimble. And I left
the cheetah-print liner hanging
off like a piece of skin,
hoping it'd fix itself.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 11:22 AM UTC
Indulge me for I'm sat looking at a scarf
As I transport rather splendid G and T
To its final destination
Not mine I hasten to add, my scarf that is not the gin
Purple not my colour you see
I had issue with burgundy as a child, frightful memories
I digress but it was left behind like a signature
Not intentionally just in a sweet forgetfulness
I can't pick it up, crazy as it sounds
I mean if I did it would be real not imagery
The moment lost, but no real moment as I can't feel it
Do you understand ? Perhaps not
I have admittedly been reminded of its presence
I imagine it's scent, no I imagine her scent
Her presence in the room, her smile lifts me
I mean it's just a scarf I mean it can't exist can it?
Do we leave a little of ourselves behind?
Emotion like lost property
I don't know, I honestly don't
Is there a course for metaphysical disorientation and the re repatriation of lost purple scarfs?
I guess not. I'd probably fail in any case.
It will still be here tomorrow. In plain sight, just hidden from my reality
Goodnight scarf.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 9:55 PM UTC
Name: Falen Acon
Residence: San Diego California
Age: 15 (almost 16)
Birthday: Jan 4, 2000 (Capricorn)
School: Don't worry about it!
Grade: 10th (Sophomore)
Class Of: 2018
Favorite Color: Ballet Pink, Gun Metal Gold and Burgundy
Favorite Flower: Wild Flowers, Roses & Sunflowers
Hobbies: Dancing and Poetry
Favorite Food: Pizza
Favorite Drink: Strawberry and Root Beer Soda
Favorite Dessert: Ice Cream (Shakes) (any flavor)
Happy Place (place that makes me happy): Beach or Dance Studio
Career Path: Professional Dancer
Lucky Day: Saturday
Lucky Number: 3
Favorite Number: 7
Friends: Christan Zeal, Elsa Angelica and Drevon Young
Goals: Find true love, Find happiness and Travel World
Favorite Artists: Lana Del Rey, The Weeknd, Drake, PartyNextDoor, Post Malone, ILoveMakonnen, Rae Sremmurd, RDGLDGRN, Kyle, A.$.A.P Rocky, G-Eazy and Zayn Malik
Celebrity Crushes: Zayn Malik, Justin Bieber, RED (from RDGLDGRN) and Steph Curry (GSW)
Favorite NBA Team: Golden State Warriors (GSW)
Favorite NFL Team: North Carolina Panthers
Favorite MLB Team: Chicago Cubs
Favorite College Football Team: LSU Tigers
Favorite Nascar Driver: Kasey Kahne
Future College: Texas State University (TSU) or Something :)
Future Sorority: Delta Sigma Theta (DST) /_\
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 11:56 PM UTC
Mirror, mirror, on the wall, tell me what suits,
Soft natural highlights, or strong punk roots?
Auburn red or beach blonde hair,
Brunette with greens, or short blunt rare?
Mermaid midnight old balayage blues,
Grey ombré curled with lilac hues?
Lemon yellow paint or neon spice,
Purple color that matches my hazel eyes!
Tousled, textured, twirled and twined,
We could take it to the front, or let it all behind.
Black hair with beautiful mahogany dye,
Fringes looking pretty every day passing by.
Straight hair with an asymmetrical bob,
Lips painted red, formal and hot.
Tie buns and bows with colorful clips,
Grow pink hair long, till they reach my hips.
Fish tail braid like a Boho chic,
All pastel shades spread, across the width.
Blonde and bright, they are in my sight,
Soon to be a celebrity, wearing them uptight.
Burgundy wine perm, crazy long,
Every hair color has a song.
There are chances that they may look all wrong,
But hey! I'm not scared to just play along!
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
Dearest Reader,
My name is Margot Dylan, and I'm a pariah.
On the 16th of April, I told my mother that I was gay. She threw the clay mug that I made for her before she found out I was gay, against the floral, peeling wallpaper mess of a wall, in our kitchen. The decaffeinated peppermint green tea left a wonderful aroma that almost cleansed the room of the stench of 'lesbian'.
I met Dylan Dunham a few days after that, and, a few days later, she was the first girl that I ever loved.
Dylan wore a red flannel jacket, and was a butch and sometimes a bitch-but I loved her even at her tomboy cruelest.
Dylan smoked a cigarette that smelled like lonerism, and she looked at me like she didn't care. My heart skipped a beat, as cliche as it sounds, whenever she would remove the cigarette from her mouth, exhale, and look at me as smoke traveled up her face. I looked at her and knew that she was everything that I wasn't, and everything that I wanted.
Dylan was Dianne, before and after school. Dylan was Dianne, who wore floral dresses and lipstick and who ditched her butch clothing in her locker before leaving. Dylan was Dianne, who was straight and who thought Tyler Wesson, from church, was cute. Dylan was Dianne, who had a short hair cut because of track and field, because she explained that she ran a faster time with less hair. Dylan was Dianne, who didn't associate with me before or after school because her parents knew that I was gay.
During school hours, the only thing Dylan did keep from Dianne was the lipstick. I was envious of the cigarette because of it's burgundy stains. We would stand in a stall, as she looked across from me, after each drag. She frequently offered her cigarettes, but I refused because I only let love **** me. If she ever brought alcohol, sometimes she'd kiss me. I told her that I loved her and she said, "I know."
The only thing that Dylan kept from me was my heart, before she started to smoke cigarettes in the bathroom with Annie Way.
I wish you the best moments so they can overcome the worst,
Margot Dylan
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 1:50 PM UTC
I wanted to be better than what
I’ve become. Like maybe a
real individual: An intellectual
in a burgundy bathrobe.
I would have specs
and impressive novels to peer
into the future with.
But I am just the same as
yesterday. They say I’m an
adult, but my robe is still
hot pink. My glasses are still
plastic. My novels are still
popular fiction.
All that I have become is underdeveloped.
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 1:08 PM UTC
She had a perfume that smelled like jasmine when she woke me up in the morning and like roses when she tucked me in at night
It was the same perfume sprayed from the same bottle, but it smelled different every time I visited her
Her perfume translated her feelings into delicate smells … smells I will never be able to forget
The same perfume is still sprayed from the same bottle …
but now … it smells like fear
She no longer wears that perfume … “it makes me sad” she says …
It makes us all sad! …
Its drizzling droplets brushes against our senses awakening sedated memories …
Memories of …
Of grandpa’s happy eyes, warm embracing voice and tender sheltering hug … he was the kind of person whose presence can be felt from a distance. He would smile every time your eyes meet his as if he was noticing you for the very first time …
Of mother’s childhood dreams tucked carefully in her braided hair …
Of baby brother’s golden straight hair and wide curious brown eyes
Of our tiny apartment whose windows allowed light to enter only from her room … the burgundy colored velvet salon chairs neatly covered by off white sheets … the noisy fridge who made sure everyone noticed me steeling ice-cream at midnight …
Grandma’s perfume harbors our memories …
Its droplets carry away our happiness leaving us stinking of fear!
Dec 25, 2018
Dec 25, 2018 at 2:51 PM UTC
I will drag my knife along your skin,
sharp blade down into your fragile, shaking canvas,
incising an increasing beat of whimpers and whines.
Please hold still. I promise this will hurt.
I will expose your clattering bones,
rip out your chattering teeth,
erase every impugned utterance
you muttered against me.
I will carve my letters slowly
on your unzipped frame,
sliding the burgundy blood across to
blot
clot
dot.
This is only preparation for what is about to follow.
I will puncture your throbbing organs,
slash your stretched cartilage
with an unwritten script.
Before I press further,
I’ll assure you, you are still alive.
I will twist each phrase,
haunt you to believe it is your fault,
force you to beg the slightest escape.
I will permanently etch my name
deep in the frozen chambers
of your quivering heart.
I will open up the blueprint as a demolition expert,
remove whole fractions of your fractured soul,
leave you a horrid wreck in the abyss
of a mess you just made.
You will not get rid of me,
though no trace of evidence is left behind.
My hands have been clean from the start.
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 2:19 PM UTC
My foggy mouth tries to hide behind rain-smacked glass.
She says goodbye with complacent stares
and with the sudden flash of an umbrella.
The red of her dress doesn't belong in my life.
Each of her strides carry my resentment and weariness,
alongside the melting grey of the Seattle skyline.
So, I don't yell for her or imagine our lives,
as the windshield wipers sweep her image, out of sight, but not out of my head.
I return home, the half I was for decades.
The tread of my shoe mashing bluegrass,
digging up seeds and insect carcass, with every step.
Storm-soaked magazine subscriptions lay on the porch,
and her name is tattooed on every one.
The dog lays on the carpet, ears and eyes perking up at me.
And he knows he's truly alone, because I'll depend on him.
Eggshell kitchen cabinets are jammed with her:
Vermilion, saffron, and burgundy glasses hold
half-empty hangings of golden flat draft,
keeping her day-old, dried saliva smothered on the edges,
like transparent ocean waves dying on a glass coast
and buried in the bottom of the sun-pierced vortex.
What I couldn't realize is that the cup was me:
marked in so many ways,
letting decaying memories burrow and stay.
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 12:19 PM UTC
Dreams are made of chocolate huts
With burgundy windows, cherry **** doors
Sweet icing on cream layered roofs
Almond -walnut -caramel floors
Dreams are made of iris and jasmine
Jacarandas lined in purple rows
Tree blossoms in clustered cobs
Petals that dance like a ballerina's toes
Dreams are made of fern green forests
Oakwood trees that cast a spell
A gossamer web of magic and charm
The music of clinking coins in a wishing well
Dreams are made of cerulean skies
Contrails of clouds in ivory snow
Violet mystic misty mountains
A tangerine orb riding a rainbow
Dreams are made of romance laced nights
A golden peach vanilla moon
Venus lighting, igniting,love's fire
The silhouette of love in rain soaked June
Dreams are made of turquoise seas
Calm waters stroked by gentle waves
Or enticed by the charm of a midsummer night
Waters that heavenly Cynthia craves
Dreams are made of silk and satin
Dappled with reds, greens and blues
But the dreams that I love to dream the most
Are all the dreams made of you
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 10:00 AM UTC