You paint on the leaves,
upon a peak on Brentor,
water caught your sleeve,
paints the linen light blue
and I sit while you relieve
whatever tension built there from a
heady, humdrum week
as if we're all in circles -
feeling nothing like we used to,
when we all met in Soho
and you turned to brush my cheek
thought it was a moment but
before I went to speak
you were back to painting -
It's a connection that we're craving,
to someone who's worth saving.
I thought I might walk down,
just before the Sun makes
out a red, final, feral sound,
we fall into the nightfall but it
wouldn't be the same if you
didn't pack that tin case
and come home.
I know how it feels
to need to drift outside yourself,
life v. old ideals
not being what we thought we would when
we were young and idle,
when I heard Billy Idol sing
something dark and light,
the caress when opposites meet,
the sweet way they tend to feel
when they are brash and bright and new
and I don't move to tell you
but as I lift you're already ready,
good to go.
We walk laced by green,
grass and every hedgerow
is bright, thick and clean,
dulling in the duskness and I
know you'll pyre the kindling,
know you'll light the fire,
I know you'll rest bootless
in the safety of the place
we call home.
Written by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
Published | Edited 14th Oct 2023
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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