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Poems,

Vingt

The leaves still rustle when the wind yawns.
The stillness is short lived.
Temper. Temper and controlled storms.
A million bottles of hearts that grieve.
There is beauty in your soul’s brain.
Matchless pairs make up your being.
You are unaware that gold flows through your veins.
Such sanity will cause a stone to sing.
Vingt.
The wounded crawl into hiding once again.
Petals wither at the hour before dawn.
Bleed the oil lamps and drop the curtains attached to the frames.
Then the green light will flood in from the cracked window screen.
20ème
We will slowly rekindle the dousing flame from the beam.
It’s time.

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