Drinking from the portrait
of an alienated moon...
It’s come around, it’s here once more
The season I’ve been waiting for...
Why is it I am always drawn to it?
At what cost is what I seek...
Misty diamonds cascade
over shadows before me...
Time to go a wandering,
Catch a bus and brave the crowd...
Languid brush strokes struggle to
Ignite under star encrusted skies...
Hidden messages adorn a sunrise
where my eyes engage in simple conversation...
only three hundred sixty-five days,
the spring wind so bitter warm...
As a child I would always wonder,
what it would be like to talk to the trees...
now it savours
wetness, like dew...
Winds move me, gales stripping my branches bare
feel vulnerable, in crisp midnight air...
Seems every tree has decided to attack;
pollen drifts like yellow powder grenades...