Rosebuds, withered
with you ;
like my cheddar, oak, pine & olive
in drought ;
closer to a world without nearing
when the eyes
are my curious thing ;
for your jest, as to how can there to celebrate? ;
from your hands
with your thoughts indirect?
She never went forth looking around me,
like the amassment of story tellers /
where song has scaled
for one another,
in the presence of a strong
pins & needles of estrangement /
I have sewn my words tightly
but still to look up for the hour
of resurrecting a decaying desire
that a star may speak some clarity ;
in a fortress of gossamer, by the mouth of foreign dreams,
you for another day, moulding
becoming the
sentiment of a stranger —
-

© D C de Oliveira
February 24 2018
Saturday 3am
.
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