Re

Cold meets cold

And these hands fail

the beauty of a purple afternoon

They fail the secret that strained for long

to disappear into the unforgiving clasp

They fail.

Heralding the end of an interlude.


Taken hostage, I am made

To trample upon the orange flowers.

Laid out once,

In the background of a sad reprise.

In haste,

In memory of the anguish

Of something, that lived to hide

but had never wanted to die.


As I do, they rummage

The pockets of time itself to find

Threads, some jaded

Stolen, laden with last lines

Of laughter and others,

In which they seemingly, last longer.


And they weave so deftly, into the eye

A horizon they tore, from under the sky

Never having seen a crosshatch this sublime,

I oblige.

I come back home

For what I know I will find.

For the sight that will satiate,

I come back home

To the swing,

that sometimes does.