They go unnoticed by so many;
brilliance of sun
in a cornflower blue sky
and blooms so bold so as to send dolor thinking,
and yet, it grows
with dark eyes penetrates and cuts into—
though lovelier these days of summer be,
I weep, I weep and weep.

The rolling hills; I am lulled into a sense of peace
momentarily,
there is something about the emerald sheen
that screams, I feel the torsion of its mood,
so similar to my own, so similar to my own—
in hues of violet violate
my being, until I am nothing but a pile of ashes;
tell me, why does summer smile still?
Why begonias avert their face,
and why warmth
doesn’t speak with authority when need be?

What? It needs a boost? It needs watering?
Sinfully roseate,
it refuses to let one wipe the slate clean,
it has claims, interweaving claws
that steer into the ruins and beyond;
oh, mutinous emotions run amok in my head,
in my head, in my head—
I hear the last word spoken,
earl grey and scones when clouds come rushing,
no, twist not theory,
however tedious and dull it may be,
my limbs break not with menial sense of starting;
I am much too fraught already.

The indent of his cheek; I have spent many
a night in June, dreaming—
but oh, the wind is rude to me,
it wakens, it lays a blow and flings me on ground,
a resounding crack is heard in return,
it’s difficult to say
whether it’s a warning or if angst has returned,
no, I will not heed to its insults,
although I try not to flinch,
the moon is rising like a love affair; like a love
affair, with a blush incomparable—
I lie wrestling, who is to say that I cannot win,
though lovelier these days of summer be,
I weep, I weep and weep.

 

 

 

Photo credits: “Begonia yard flowering,” by Gerhard Romero, Pexels.

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