"puce" poems
pretty pearl anklet
adorning your foot
tiara crown
princess ***** cow
all dressed up in a dark red
cherry sequined
come **** me dress
black lacquered nails
body beautiful prepped
for ordeal by gang bang
and pretty girl strangle
torture blood ****
wiggle wiggle
**** pink aglow
glistening hive
your mouth piece
bilingual
fucky and baby talk
all manicured and bejeweled
glitter and tears
***** food
inch worm lover
little bludgeon
your excited
for a bed of nails
what a luxury
legs spread wide
***** drool melt
your scent
a silk **** cocktail
in thick puce
stained pink milk pom poms
****** beyond tabulation
come sweet cow
its time for slaughter
down on your haunches
you look up
thrilled
dark dreams do come true
i love you
like the bog loves bones
embalmed in spice
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 10:20 AM UTC
O pulchritudinous, for infinite climaxes
For bilious spasms of pigswill
For puce Popacatepetl pedigrees
Above the perverted pampas!
America! America! Allah excreted his curses on thee
And bang thy ****** in company with Islamic monk, from brothel to gay red—light district
O pulchritudinous, for spaceman bottoms
Whose **** throbbing tapeworm
A toucan crossing for slipperiness spifflicate
Across the intergalactic space!
America! America! Allah enrich thine ev’ry vice
Reinvigorate thy ****** *********** inside monolithic ectoplasm, thy merrymaking inside pyramid!
O pulchritudinous, for freaks got fat
In disentangling feeding frenzy
Who more than ***** their brothel slobbered over
And velvet glove more than backbone!
America! America! May Allah thy blonde exhaust
Till all rave reviews be disreputableness and ev’ry come superhuman
O pulchritudinous, for chauvinist muscleman
That smells wide of the fourth dimension
Thine lathery brothels lick
Polished using giant armadillo excrement!
America! America! Allah excreted his curses on thee
And bang thy ****** in company with Islamic monk from brothel to gay red—light district
Mar 25, 2010
Mar 25, 2010 at 5:22 PM UTC
When in Bohemia, she screams about
Her pastures green, but not too loud
So never have I known, that the world listens too
As a comedian, I see she belongs
But never conforms, to the song of
This nomad world, I'm glad she found it too
So run! She wants to run again
You vagabond, you're well-spent
Bohemian tendencies says, “you can't stay long”
“These kinds of commons, you won't ever get along”
Armenian, it’s such a release
Materialistic animosity
The speed of life has no value, like dollar signs
I loved an alien, who dabbled in art
Of all visage, enema of the heart
Wanderer, she's spent so much but there's that bliss in the air
So smile! It's all sorts of worthwhile
To see a world and not fret so much
Bohemian tendencies says, “be spectacular
Before the nebula men steal your fur”
In the Caribbean, you dream a kite
As your taxi, you can't walk all the time
Travel hills of puce-mauve sands, the world in trance
A true deviant, the thinking of
All dreaming thoughts, and loves begot
Tinkerer, what will we do when our brains run dry?
Oh, no! Don't think about the end
To love a life in due pretence
Bohemian tendencies says, “think fair, live now”
“The world is watching with distaste of time in doubt”
As a chameleon, should she go alone?
The world is cold, except for times in colour
Her world in dance, she'll do without me
When in Bohemian, the first I've seen
Of pastel stencils through her happi-
Ness-tled in her loft home of the wind
There she goes! Ain’t she a lovely wing?
I hope she finds a world that sings
Bohemian tendencies says, “to love and to hold
But to let go, for treasures can mold”
There she goes
There she goes
There she goes
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 3:39 PM UTC
the child's house
domicile of estrangements
his parents dressed him like a little girl
against his will
a pox of gender confusion
glum aura
he ascended by violence
and lived through the logic of a mirage
except for copulating with demons
which of course
was ruined by
the good Christians
they who always hate ***
not wanting to be reminded
they are animals too
their heaven withheld
their halo's sullied
the vulnerability of desire their crime
Eros a disgrace
still beating their genitals until a wicked thunder
the pro-creative
an affirmation of paradox
between the continuity of life
and the dread of death
***** resurrections
a second *******
**** flood
without redemption
Satan standing on their necks
while God pulls them up by their hair
rebels to reason
bewitchers of wit
deranged by the myth
of dolls
wood and plastic painted corpses staring
and a blossom throated Goddess
ham handed monkey fist
jerking off in search of a bulls eye anyway
eyes bleeding on bare legs; lifting a white cotton dress
a bulwark of erections
like canons blasting puce spats
under his frilly skirt; a red rain
haunted by dead girls dancing
like homeless hip bones sway
a bewildered phantasm
in a doll house dream
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 2:32 PM UTC
where do they go?
to mountains of synonyms
pushing lilac or purple
or puce or lavender
from valleys
of russet metaphors?
do verbs frollic?
nouns place themselves
before mirrors
asking themselves
"who am I?"
adjectives, do they
answer?
do the long words
most people don't
understand
do they go on
spending sprees
with their
million dollar
Lotto winnings?
do conjunctions
play matchmaker?
or hitch up
boxcars for
the more expressive
poetic engineers
to haul through
the long winds?
ghosts of past tenses
invade present
and mixed metaphors
haunt the nightmares
of learned readers.
gerunds run on
their little wheels
and stuff their cheeks
with prepositions.
where do words go
when they die?
they must hang as
DANGLING
PARTICIPLES.
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 7:26 PM UTC
'But that was nothing to what things came out
From the sea-caves of Criccieth yonder.'
'What were they? Mermaids? dragons? ghosts?'
'Nothing at all of any things like that.'
'What were they, then?'
'All sorts of queer things,
Things never seen or heard or written about,
Very strange, un-Welsh, utterly peculiar
Things. Oh, solid enough they seemed to touch,
Had anyone dared it. Marvellous creation,
All various shapes and sizes, and no sizes,
All new, each perfectly unlike his neighbour,
Though all came moving slowly out together.'
'Describe just one of them.'
'I am unable.'
'What were their colours?'
'Mostly nameless colours,
Colours you'd like to see; but one was puce
Or perhaps more like crimson, but not purplish.
Some had no colour.'
'Tell me, had they legs?'
'Not a leg or foot among them that I saw.'
'But did these things come out in any order?'
What o'clock was it? What was the day of the week?
Who else was present? How was the weather?'
'I was coming to that. It was half-past three
On Easter Tuesday last. The sun was shining.
The Harlech Silver Band played Marchog Jesu
On thrity-seven shimmering instruments
Collecting for Caernarvon's (Fever) Hospital Fund.
The populations of Pwllheli, Criccieth,
Portmadoc, Borth, Tremadoc, Penrhyndeudraeth,
Were all assembled. Criccieth's mayor addressed them
First in good Welsh and then in fluent English,
Twisting his fingers in his chain of office,
Welcoming the things. They came out on the sand,
Not keeping time to the band, moving seaward
Silently at a snail's pace. But at last
The most odd, indescribable thing of all
Which hardly one man there could see for wonder
Did something recognizably a something.'
'Well, what?'
'It made a noise.'
'A frightening noise?'
'No, no.'
'A musical noise? A noise of scuffling?'
'No, but a very loud, respectable noise ---
Like groaning to oneself on Sunday morning
In Chapel, close before the second psalm.'
'What did the mayor do?'
'I was coming to that.'
2.8k
morning coco pops and
silence in the low house
we creep around the halls
a playground, a waterpark
whatever we wanted
until he appears in the doorway
caught rapid hand in biscuit tin
wraps us in his puce embrace
it is in the wind that blows across the cold north beach
it is in the rain that bids hydrangea bloom
it is in the golden crust that tops the rhubarb ****
and in the weight that comes with "see you soon"
buzzcut season in the air
wooden hearts are carved with care
arrows fly through misty skies
watch him climb the spiral stair
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 10:54 AM UTC
See, see the tiny sky
Marvel at its big puce depths.
Tell me, Tony do you
Wonder why the armadillo ignores you?
Why its foobly stare
makes you feel churned.
I can tell you, it is
Worried by your giffengididdle ****** growth
That looks like
A mold.
What's more, it knows
Your pantsy potting shed
Smells of ******
Everything under the big tiny sky
Asks why, why do you even bother?
You only charm garlics.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 6:05 AM UTC
Puce fresnel washed its light on his over sized African patterned dashiki,
while paisley notes poured from his reeded dreams.
Like the Hamelin piper I was mesmerized by hypnotic tones,
every sweet and spicy slur, every bend of every breath,
I followed him down history’s path and heard the world come boldly through.
“You got to keep the magic”, was his advice .
“Don’t give away too much of the theme.”
Through fake fog he swirled his love,
his passion, his calling.
“Summertime”, played on an oboe
is like hot liquid southern summer ***
It crawls up your spine and explodes in your brain,
and you understand the songs meaning without one word sung.
Hundreds of years of vassalage reenacted in every blue colored measure.
This man did not think of himself as a descendant of slavery though.
He was, like all of his brothers of color,
a descendant of great Princes and Kings,
stealthy Hunters and fearless Warriors,
grand Land Owners and Wise Men,
Great Leaders of Peace and Brotherhood,
and he lived out his life as they did,
changing the world one note at a time.
He played the music of all people,
“World Music” it later came to be known.
Listen….he is in the rhythm still.
Wherever there is an ethnicity holding on to their heritage in song.
Wherever there is an indigenous rhythm, a harmony, a feeling……
Yusef is there, and he will be there forever.
*Yesef Lateef
Born October 9, 1920 in Chattanooga, TN
Died December 23, 2013 Shutesburry, MA
Musician, author, spokesman, educator
Instruments: tenor saxophone, flute, oboe, bassoon, bamboo flute, shehnai, shofar, arghul, koto
Recalling a magical night at Stratton Mt.,Vermont, in the winter of 1975 when I opened for Yusef Lateef.*
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 6:21 PM UTC
@@@blue pink@@@
@@@russet purple@@@
@@red yellow \ / orange teal@@
@@ochre violet @@ puce lavender@@
@@green brown ¥¥ turquoise navy@@
@@scarlet citrine ¥¥ cerulean black@@
copper silver ¥¥ golden bronze
peach wine ¥¥ periwinkle
rose champagne ¥¥ blue chartreuse
carnation marigold ¥¥ buff ecru mahogany
@emerald sapphire ¥¥ amber opal pearl@
@raven oriole rainbow russet@
@@ @@
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 4:50 AM UTC
I am a child,
wrapped in cheap paper.
I'm tearing
at every edge.
I tape myself back together,
but I rip in a different place,
and I stare at it.
I feel my body scream in pain as I grin at a
stranger.
The wound is festering,
it's puce with grime.
It's growing and expanding forth from torn scars
that I've tried to heal with butterfly bandages.
But, every time the butterflies bite my skin,
after using their wings to keep
my laceration
from ripping further,
I use the bird that is my fingernail to pick at the scab,
and watch as the butterfly tumbles to the ground,
joining a thousand carcasses laid strewn next to me.
They're shrivelled and crisp,
scattered in disarray.
I hear them apologise,
for not staying so long.
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 4:52 PM UTC
Is mauve, turquoise, burgundy, teal, lavender,
puce, umber, magenta and chartreuse.
It’s a rainbow of color that climbs after the thunderstorms
that is like a badge on a sky that is so blue
It is deserts and rains and mountains and plains
that stretch as far as the eye can comprehend
It is surrounded by ocean and blessed be
the beauty of it just never ends
It’s half a day trip and a drive up the mountain
to walk the forest trail to see the platypus in their habitat
It’s just a short trip on a hot summer day
to lay on a beach and man… In summer, you can’t beat that
At the same time it’s a winter wonderland of snow falls
upon mountains that are majestically steep
It’s a day trip away from the most magnificent site
Ayers Rock lives in mystery of ancestry so deep
Its glow worms at night alighting so bright
inside their domed cave at Natural Arch
It’s the Great Barrier Reef where the natural order of things
continue to grow, a rainbow of coral on the march
It’s sharing the ancestry of all that live on our land
St Patrick’s Day, Chinese New Year, we accept any invitation
We especially are thrilled when the rest of world joins in
with our love of a good horse race, Melbourne Cup…..
The Race That Stops a Nation
What other land has an entire country stand still
for three and a half minutes, which has never seemed so long
Fortunes are won and lost on this great day
Horses come from afar, we say ‘Bring It On’
There are no concrete jungles, just a huge urban sprawl
where everyone can claim paradise as their own
Its kids in the street playing cricket and football
amongst a community with which they have grown
Born from conviction, but raised by honor
it’s the land that just goes to show
that no matter where you may come from
if you put down roots, from our soil, you will grow
Friendships come easy, mateship is a lifetime gift
If you’re in trouble and the odds against you are stacked
Just give a holler, she’ll be right mate
We like a good fight. We’ve got ya back!
Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 10:59 PM UTC
Penguins painted pink,
peacefully practising pragmatic pebble placement.
Perfectly pointy piles, please!
Profoundly pious Pandas ponder pancreatic problems,
predict potential palsy.
Prognosis? Perilously poor.
Pale porpoises proudly plunge purple pools,
placidly pasturing petrified plankton.
Poor protozoans perish.
Portly, paunchy, plumpish, porcine, porky pigs
populate putrid puddles,
Pulverizing pumpkin pies.
Purposely Prickly porcupines pursue palatable plants,
pin-pointing precisely.
Puce petunias preferred.
Pill popping puppet people perpetuate planetary perdition,
pardon profuse pollution.
Pretentious ******
Sep 4, 2019
Sep 4, 2019 at 11:22 PM UTC
Beneath the
burning snowflakes
of my consciousness
I stand
ensconced in ice
a statue in
your garden
all the verdant,
living treasures
I have given
around you,
burst from
my womb
in volcanic fibers
molten lava
of puce
of ochre-toned
vibrancy
that pierces
through the strata
of our own
personal history
archeological insights
of who we have been
love in frequencies
that once
met their destination
echoes of fire
falling in viscous
bands of liquid
upon my outspread fingers,
uncaught
You
once loved me in parts
My snowflowers
will stay with us
but I will not
the tenth
of me that you see
is already disappearing
worn down
from your stance
of constant dark
not the dark of richly
pungent mineral layers
of blackest black
but lackluster
in taste and texture
no match
for my warrioress heart
For deep inside
this clear glass casing
are rivulets
flash floods
about to break
the gelid frost surface
bursting through
in cracks
like end-of-winter
river rushes
like seismic explosions
sulphur-rocked
My wild totem
is emerging
antlers glowing from
my crown
They are clashing
rustling up trees
whipping winds of magic
that tumult
right past the
icicles of your posture
And the last gift
I will ever
give to you
are the shards
that have already
melted from my
own estric heat
and, even then,
you will be too numb
to understand
and now, comes
in resonated whisper
my soul is out the door
Dec 25, 2016
Dec 25, 2016 at 4:18 PM UTC
i'm unwinding my head
on
honey moon belly
******* carnivorous lozenges
falling in love with glazed
eye ball devils
hypnotic stare
destination
a tunnel of fiendish odysseys
blood drooling eel
vomits gush white
daddy long leg threads
in honeys wet cage
to wither
writhing spit hot
in fat muscle and bone
headless
head first
like a mindless falcon
after scattered mice
i feel her teeth tearing
syringes of ecstasy
ransacking swollen motion spirals
and ***** like bronz buckaroos
at a fancy pool party
crimson *** macabre
****** roast bon bon fire
licking her lump of desire
a rousing boogyman sermon
speaks in incinerating tongues
swallowing a hideous parfait
**** growl
girl squat
**** ****
mint julip throat
choke symphony
abducting lascivious pollinated gulps
take me in like reckless bull sap
through your red
dada warp land
pit of the brain
undulant flesh landscape
of shapeless ovule spume
mouthing night blows
Incised flagellation's
devour buffet spread maiden derelict
arched and trembling
drunk and drugged
like a buttermilk sky
groaning hysterical
in feral muck stained beds
of puce and slime ochre pigments
stunned umbra
a famished
deep veined jutting peninsula
longing for princess ***** dynasties
with vast thighs radiating inferno hearths
and rolling hill **** hieroglyphics
decipher rug pugilist lap songs
my goddess i long for your
bruised fruit
crawling like the dead of night
on pitch vanta shadows
where love becomes a savage
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 1:26 PM UTC
~~~<♢>~~~
trip the light fantastic!
draw blood from a stone
make a rainbow palette
within your flute of bone
trip the light fantastic!
there's more to life than hate
you can be, and you can see
whatever your soul's state
trip the light fantastic!
pastel pink or day glo green
color's more than eyesight
there's more that can be seen!
trip the light fantastic!
fall within its swoon!
Pink Floyd discovered prisms
on the dark side of the moon!
trip the light fantastic!
lavender and puce
you have to play your poetry
c'mon! let's call a truce!
chrystophase and peridot
emerald and ruby
topaz and tourmaline
gems of healing truly!
black onyx and opal
amethyst and amber
make yourself some jewelry!
make your ever-afters!
trip the light fantastic!
hold life within a flask
wine in purest crystal
make yourself
STAINED GLASS!
SoulSurvivor
(C) 7/19/2016
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 11:43 AM UTC
Les rêves qu'on a perdu avec amour,
Le sourire que je te donne toujours.
Mes poémes seront á toi jusqu'a la mort,
Tu fais partie de moi, de mon sort.
Ta photo de petite fille si belle,
Un oiseau, une hirondelle,
La magie de ta tendresse,
Quelle bonheur, quelle tristesse....
Dans la nuit de mon sommeil,
Je me couche, je me réveille.
Poémes d'une liberté douce,
Tu fais partie de moi ma puce.
Tous les jours, tout le temps,
Je navigue avec ton semblant.
Mes poémes pour une petite fleur,
Un enfant qui ris, qui pleure....
Victor Marques
Dec 14, 2009
Dec 14, 2009 at 9:15 AM UTC
The world is full of colour
And it is gorgeous
People
Red people
Yellow people
Blue people
Mixing and mingling
Creating new colours
Green
Purple
Orange
Splashes of pink
Dashes of teal
Fuchsia
Turquoise
Indigo
Everywhere you look
There is beauty
Except at me
For I am
Grey
I am dull
Lifeless
Not even muddy brown
Dares to touch me
Nor puckish grellow
Nor faded puce
I am alone
I am
Grey
I wave at Periwinkle
Its shoulder turns to ice blue
Fire engine red fumes at the sight of
Me
Neon Green dims
At the sound of my voice
So goodbye world of colour
Goodbye world of life
World of High Lighter Yellow
Of Peach and Plum
Goodbye Burgundy
And Magenta
Hello White
Hello Black
Hello Death
I am
Grey
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 9:50 AM UTC
inspired by
Wendy Starry Eyes'
"AGING TIMES"
@pink blue@
@green fuchsia \ / gold magenta@
yellow orange ●● indigo purple
@black buff ■■ turquoise@
rainbow ■■ red ecru
@@flame ■■ emerald@
@silver copper ■■ vermilion puce
@crimson ■■ carmine@
@ @
SoulSurvivor
(C)12/12/2015
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
*You = Respectful, Understanding, Kind, Free, Individual. You make me free. You make me happy.
Every atom belonging to me and its bonds,
trembles to the thought of you.
The universe rapes me with its vibrating electricity.
Sensation is saturated.
It feels like eternity is collapsing upon my soul.
like a newborns cry, my eyelashes weep your name.
You and I living a day in simplicity.
A day in February,
Where the wind gives birth to lavender and mint.
I am lying bare-skinned in our white leaves.
long sinuous brown hair rested upon my shoulders and *******
I bear your son.
You lay over and below me,
Brushing your deep puce lips
upon the frail roots maturing within me;
a wonder of the universe.
“My Queen”
you refer to me with such truth.
I see your humble black eyes and your child-like smile.
My burning rays send upon your face pure innocence.
Your eyes tell me two love stories.
Your demon holds me out of fear.
I see the way your love for me has arrived to its eminence.
for a man to witness such a goddess,
holds the depth of the universe.
aware, my pagan bows down to me.
Lover, you must sustain the nobility your soul possesses
for this warrior empress
carries the weight of
the sun in her womb;
awaiting to set a king ablaze
in this blessed state
my skin coruscates with youth and peace.
my identity screams power.
you my dear,
you whisper love.
-Arizona
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 8:43 AM UTC
i wake
it is 8
i am seven
the sun floods in through the window
(late!) 2 pop-tarts and some juice and out the door in 9 minutes flat.-
r u n n i n g
recon the neighborhood. "Hey, Scott". We team up. A few of the"little" kids are out as well.
Check at Ricky's. Some sort of punishment, but a little whining and he is free as well.
More kids come out.
DIRT CLOD WARS!
seek cover
They go behind a dumpster. us, in a ditch.
we lob (never throw! ) the chunks of red clay which hit the asphalt with a puff
of puce vapor.
Some kid hits my little brother with a thrown clod,
with a rock in it.
He cries.
Honor demands a fight.
taunting , shoving,
I hit the kid in the nose and it bleeds. Crying he runs home.
(and I feel a glory Alexander would envy.)
"FELIX, COME HOME FOR LUNCH"
(5 minutes to devour a bologna sandwich and a glass of chocolate milk)
then ****** into round two. this time hide-and-seek and she . .
(the new girl ; corn-silk hair and eyes that . . ??
so i'm "it"
but even the "little" kids are getting Home
( i am way out left
because i know . . .)
- suddenly -
she makes a deerlike dash for home, but i am ready,
and like a javelin
appear between her and Home.
"you're out"
as my hand grasps her shoulder.
e v e r y m o l e c u l e o f m y f l e s h
!ignites!
and i feel as a god)
The game is over. Scott, Ricky and I spend an hour tricking the"little" kids into sitting in piles of dog ****
Suppertime and we are called home.
years have come and gone,
still i remember those summers.
with Scott and Ricky.
and the heady . . .
. . .dizzying
breathless . . .
. . . bliss
of
p
l
a
y. . .!
Sometimes . . . from time to time
I also remember the girl -
(and I still feel a tingle in my right hand.)
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 5:56 AM UTC
pull the plug on me before
i switch off the breaker.
perturbed you glance as
condolences roll off my lips
and fine sherry slips past them.
nothing was meant to be rosy and
in the black of our feelings,
the devil moves in me
as you are meant to.
the circuit in my halo
is calling ********
and bast is laughing,
coughing ugly colours from her lungs.
puce must be our hamartia
and when it dribbles down my face
i make leaf piles out of
the skin cells and ugly rivers,
and you take breathing for granted.
but you don't give up that easily,
and when i'm filling my bathtub with wine
you're there to lap it up.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 1:27 AM UTC
She sat contained in the all-encompassing embrace
His arms a welcome warmth
as they sat under the smoldering fires of dead days past
They drank and spoke wildly as sanguine freely flowed forth from the glass
As it swirled upon the inside of their mouths
Puckering stained puce lips and drawing mandalas in the clouds
Rich with color and endless ingenuity as the tall grass softly swayed
Carrying music to their ears
From time to time exchanging glances
Witnessing the last salvos burst in the dusk
Heralding daybreak
She knew there with the breath of dawn caressing her face laying against the heaving of his heart that she would never see him again
Aug 13, 2011
Aug 13, 2011 at 2:15 AM UTC
From far away they come
hard men all,
mercenaries under a foreign sun
oblivious to its rays they
bare all, turning puce red
or peel, under hard hats,
cut down jeans, working boots,
tool belts, like desert rats
fighting for a new horizon
Scouse, Manc, Paddy
nicknamed and framed
by the mockery of their peers
shouting language across green lawns
not yet laid, that most definitely
won’t be heard in the select circles
that will inhabit these modern homes
castles one and all, individually the same
oh no, they won’t be welcome
lowering the neighbourhood tone,
four wheel drive and pick-up
replaced by Mercedes and BMW
Nature settles in again, to frame
like the scar around a wound
healed but never quite the same
So they move on, soldiers of fortune,
mercenaries under a foreign sun
building new structures to change our futures.
Jul 9, 2019
Jul 9, 2019 at 3:52 PM UTC
Your petals are exposed, open
Shamelessly displayed details
Puce-pink fades into a creamier hue
Before a vibrant sunny explosion
Splashes all over my eyes
I savour the velvety fragility
On my fingertips, as I touch you
The scent floods my nose; a lively aroma
Birds and bugs are enraptured
And I too am captured
Blooming buds and wonderful weeds
Can be small joys existence needs.
Apr 4, 2018
Apr 4, 2018 at 5:25 PM UTC