Just beside her,
Past diaphanous panels,
Precipitation cuts through sunlit flora
And suspends the escalating swelter.

Penned,
A squall overwhelms her;
disturbs her newfound focus.
She yearns to be immersed in the downpour;
to be reclaimed from the monochromatic ire
that often enveloped her these days.

Revitalized,
Just as the immediate verdue.

Dissimilarly,
Such seedlings yearn for nothing.
They thrive effortlessly and flourish successfully,
Without desiring more than the bare necessities for survival, then procreation.
Never falling victim to emotional temptations.
Never succumbing to disdain,
Nor pique.
Inflamed exclusively by the fever of the sun,
Not by the ineludible shortcomings sentenced upon man.

‘Hope’ has discovered new accommodations on the Victorian armchair.
In its former position,
now mediocre, achromatic reliefs.
Suggests a shift in priority, one might deduce.
A conclusion I cannot promise to share the validity of.
Not to him
Nor them.
My own secret verdict to wrap ‘round my mind

Indecisive,
fluctuating.

'Hope'less bed
Now occupied by the sagging, meaningless reliefs. Grey neutrality. Uncertainty.
Colors indicative of recurrent apathy.

Loveless bed.
Hush,
I can say no more.
© Irina