Seismic seconds,
(of ceaseless stargazing)
shape metaphors
of unheeded sensations.
It's early morning
- I think -
and we're wrapped,
inside this woolgathering moment.
It's about time
for saffron and sapphire,
to redecorate the sky,
as the children
- of sun and rain -
hover along horizons;
We see birds and bats
trading places; Actually,
we hear sensual summer serenades
repressing the nightly shrieks,
echoing through the fog;
as if we're living time's dream.
Where emerald and burnt sienna
nurture nature,
then flirt friskily
with flowers and foliage.
And we hold hands,
imitating impishly
the roleplay of teasing
and making love.
But fumes and pollution
curtain the azure skies,
as they drift drably
- like oil in water -
from windowpanes
to porches of our nature.
Playfully, I wander
within the room behind your eyes;
where you mirror syllables
- spoken and depicted -
by the memories
of our mouths and hands.
And these hands,
(of soil and heaven)
copulate colours and scents
to birth stories of yesteryear.
Then, together we fold
this reality to dreams, (of ardor)
and mutate to mud
on a viridescent field.
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