Exhaustion

I wish, between the spinal synapses, I could insert a key, the teeth slotting into place like a bird, landing upon a telegraph wire.

.

And waiting, it would turn, it’s wings would spread, and exhaustion, slowly, would spring.

.

Outwards, amber exhaustion, melliferous, it malingers, before gushing from my pores, a Vesuvian embrace.

.

And my bones, the tension that wrought them, unravels like a tangerine skin, towards redamant relief.

.

Wings spread outward, the plane of days,

.

Just before the,


key, turns
.

back.

.

.

.

.

.

Highfields

Merry as the day was long, I wandered, winderly,

As demure amber, skyward, encased the thread of day,

And I read the benches of the barely dead.

.

So planted I turned to the lake,

As, aimlessly, the moorhens mawked and paddled,

Away,

The slithers of the day,

Circling and encircling, nothing, a moment.

.

And showed a commitment to that aegis,

that I could not,

As I read the benches of the barely dead,

and thought.

A Blemish

But how was I to know,

that love could be so?

That the curlicue of our spooning frames,

framed the fate of future days

In which propinquity, silently, awakened us,

to a bond beyond safety.

.

We, shrouded, in a Catherine wheel,

of opalescent haze,

Where I’d been happy,

Just to have you near,

Holding my ears gaze,

in a saccharine scented dream.

.

And the untraceable innocence,

Of love yet known,

Bought joy yet to become a blemish.