neon threads stitch winters clouds

sliced watermelons deliver themselves        
on the back of disguised lavenders, hiding        
behind the embittered and unrequited passions        
rejected by the grey that haunts today        
       
purple is the lady that the old man remembers        
when he has earned his alone        
and the wolves aren't yet skinned        
       
he rolls his last few nickels across autumns bar        
listening to the necessity in the silk        
that she drapes over the wood not yet split        
       
toast to the logs prematurely lit and hibernation
uncertain as the warmth from fresh blood        
prostrated on the flooring from winters first storm