Sunsets have stories to unfurl I guess – each sunset one of its kind – it’s the quiet lilt in the
far horizon that does for me. Each time a new vista opens up – the auburn rays tilt into the
womb of the ocean – bloodshed waters lapping against my skin; they soothe me and I am
harnessed to their tangerine depths; I can almost lick the golden honey sunset which glides
across my limbs – it exudes a pampering fun and broth of memories settle, not awkward; but
still I can drink to fathomable depths. The yester night stain on the horizon are blotches on
my pristine bedspread where I take you in my arms – we spell ecstasy with our mouth
entwined – our eyes speak the alphabet of love.
The bluebells in glee spring their jocund heads in the sunny scape of mind, the fleeting
images of a sickle-shaped moon, weaned from the sapling sun are coquetries. Love
prophesied in the over-arched poplar trees are an ode to the doleful evening when
despondently I, wield my frightful sojourn against the eavesdropping bushes, growing flimsy
by the surreal moon.
The sun gobbles the anaemic moon of yesternight. Vibes of the strangled sun startle the Jays
out of stupor to sing psalms. Their residual songs ease the crumbling pain inside my head.
The insomniac night evocates into an exuberant day.
Pic from Net.