Soft widowed tendrils flame to ash,
Simple draped curtains found to be made of clay;
Famed cat-shells blamed as rash,
The smell of spring is out today.
Windows creek in the dawn of day,
While fresh plants ground-it out and away.
Silly carpet games I found-by a brook
In the world of May. Fair canvassed
Colors swim off
In a season called “silence” a little ill-logic can stir;
I sometimes grow weary of things that don’t occur.
Then again, I never expected anything;
I didn’t manipulate the environment with synchronicity.
Sometimes my shadow may get to me,
Then I turn to see it hide behind reality.
Hung like fish hooked steel; though copper wire
Seemed so innocent. A color of dawn
Painted my day, but it tends
To run off