The winter trees stand unclothed,
branches reaching for each other with woody empathy
craving their lovers touch, naked bodies of passion,
their children lie red and amber,
setting ablaze the verdigris blades,
that hold them kindly,
when their mothers can no longer carry them,
the embrace breaks them down,
allowing their earthy scent to creep to the nostrils of those who come to think a while,
enjoying the fleeting sun on their backs for a time,
on this frosty winter day,

The traffic seems obsolete,
if the whispering birds can learn,
to ignore the engine rumbles as can I,
the obsidian asphalt path carves delicately through this city sanctuary,
like an old english dance,
where courters would not touch their partner,
but embrace the sweet proximity,
and cherish the fire in their beloved's eyes,
and soul.

Water lies abandoned in the path,
reflecting the eternal blue of the afternoon sky,
an embodiment of tranquility,
a connection that can never be consummated,
a longing to be together again,
the water envies the whisp of cloud that has retained the skies clinch,
a ripple destroys the perfect portrayal,
but to give way to two Blue ****,
absorbing its love,
and releasing it to one another,
as they speak to each other,
and elope toward the emerging pearl moon.

I brush my feet amongst the wood chip beds,
mere remnants of once great trees,
still huddling together in solidarity,
as though trying to reform what once was,
it makes me ponder of soul mates lost,
clutching at the memories that once were,
and pursuing to reforge a love that refuses to be broken,
adoration manifest as young sapplings reach upward,
sprouting from the shallow chippings,
ready to blossom with memories once more.

Under the mango tree where the shade is dark and deep
she waits with years on her skin.

The face though weary with the burden of time
has not yielded to the fate
of having once loved and lost.

She believes the winds from the barren field
will one day carry the rustle of footsteps
raising a song from within earth
that the moment is arrived
for the dead river to rise in tides
and flood her cheeks with the sapplings of
all the unplanted kisses.

When the nights come
the fireflies would sing
love is such a beautiful thing
basking in the glow of her heart.

I cough—and crimson flowers bloom on my palms
faster than the atom bomb can fall
As roots grew out from cells—you were yelling at trees—you couldn't move—you were just yelling at trees—yelling at trees
"Because that's all we really are! Just a different combination of the same thing. Like padlocks"

and it's not oak trees, but it's sapplings—and that's a start to a something we don't have a name to. You plant the seed of insanity into my mind,

He rested
on the shoulder
of a tree -- with his
crimsoned eyes.
Stripes of sweat walked on his face
as thoughts sought his attention.

Works
had eaten up his strength
and wreathed
his body with aches.
His clothes, like a sun soaked sack;
caked the air with cruel smells.

Lost
in the coo that stood
on his lips -- psyche
left him for home,
As he watched the sapplings-
bid them bye.

He was a big fish
in a small pond,
Before the drought.

Josh Wealth Pampam ©
25/10/20 GMT 13:22

I know when it’s time to write ,
for when the starlings murumting rise and fall ,
and rise ,
then fall ,
then fall ,
and fall ,
their light skeletons frail ,
In many numbers they never found their wings ,
found dead upon the gravel.
So the bird who has no shame swooped for his prey all the same ,
for down down did it lay ,
then up to a blue yonder .

As for us the sun will rise as we fly to bluer skies than sapplings wither and more will die ,
as we as birds must rise and fall ,
then rise ,
and find Gods rest as we retreat from the worlds thistle and worm.

So as the rabbit must flee from his Michelin chef ,
so must we from his rabbit stew ,
and burrow our way to pastures new ,
to a greener yonder .