Your peace is hard to find though you elucidate the ways of slow fragrant flowers, your murmur like a warm breeze as we clutch our fingers in complicit struggle. All exploded with that arrow shining towards the direction of understanding. I spurn the old fever of patching and shoring tottering castles; nothing sacred there any more. The vine-clump gleams in the sun, above the brown slather of the cess, entwined with a rose that breathes her scent upon the torpid air, festooned with blooms that counter all viccisitudes and squeeze all harm to naught.
The moon, I must remember.
I am allegedly a miscreant: seeking pleasure, delving trenchantly for some bouquet that scents the air with the beautiful grace of a curious angel's breast. Yes, I did abscond, for reasons obscure to many, salient to me, and tantamount to damnation to most. But your hair is a beacon that strengthens me: tantalising, munificient, a pink tropical species I cherish for all its profligacy of nature, and its promise of ripeness.
Dxxx
(Should have put this in comment rather than eamil) I've done about 1/3 of mine - difficult when being jibbered at - but it's more about the irrelevance of poetry vs the salience of dialectical materilism. I think I'll get back on the case and spunk it up a bit.
ReplyDelete;-)