There are holes that uncolor on fruit
and the effervesence disassembles my heart,
but my holes won't follow
for I will hoard the dulcet of roses,
and furtively suffocate the hollow for you.
A nail-scratching shiver is lulling the light asleep;
it paralizes, chatoyant.
But I will hold my bells high
because the four winds shall sing
and I will wait, gazing into the dormant fire
as it breathes awake with a warm murmur.
The woods moan worried of the sun swallowed by clouds,
warned, I grab my bag and steal my way up their branches
to catch the tinkling fires and lights of the penumbra
before I bite my lips on the day I find coins on your eyes.
A small free verse poem I came up with a few weeks ago and got around to conclude just recently after listening to Keaton Henson.
I dunno, maybe I'll write some more someday.
Glossary
Beleague: To be worried about.
Chatoyant: Like a cat's eye.