A Night In Detorit
It's three O' Clock
Outside Detroit.
The breeze alone,
Moves with sole alliance,
Throughout the forest;
Beckoning me to silence:
Leaving me to watch
My Thoughts wander
Through The landscape of
Disregard.
A symphony within
Its own schism.
To grasp
A cloud... is to
Grasp a thought.
Shall I tantalize
Quite like she?
Livid moon, the coquet,
Marauding beyond
Thin strips of veil
(Baiting hints of bedevil-try),
Only to reveal sudser...
My fingers shalln't ever
Feel her quicksilver wan--
Hitherto now begging solace--
Left alone
With but this humble idiom:
"So mote it be"
Copyright © Rick Rupinski | Year Posted 2016
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