Perhaps it is my folly,
tucking away into the elbow of green—
the flutter of ebony dipped skies,
appetence clamours far more incessantly where there is no entrance.
An unembellished truth,
surges inside the boughs of my aortic archway—
if so, then why do I spend every minute hating myself?
The velvet dying of dusk mirrors your plight;
I have succeeded,
I am a laurel; I am things both blithely blissful
and tempestuously biting—
as waves upon other side of the shore Apollo, you seethe with head
buried in your palms.
Photo credits: “Daydreaming in Pink,” 24 x 18 oil on panel by Aaron Westerburg
Posted for Play It Again @ Real Toads