Brown
days, tired and sleepy,
Destined
to fall free
As
autumn leaves,
Or
a brewing steam that went wrong
Waiting
in the cold...
Yet
Days
gray, yellow and white
Appear
anew, stretching for colours!
It’s
a merging, in the midst of things.
For
the rising child,
The
relentless brush pokes
Needless
needles,
Until
with softness, the brightness
The
freshness of imagenie*
It
appears smoky in the shelves.
There
is a wind that begs, blooms, flourishes
Still
The
most fearsome storm
With
the green bomb,
Incapable
Leaves,
grasses
Ready
to spring, splurge
Falls
in the silent woods
With
a spread, unnoticed,
All
around,
The
earth gets it all!
In
the new forest-fresh world
The
blind sun is born, crying
Undressed,
unwilling, drained
Staging
a bed, in time
Prepared
to pounce on the pounding
Pumping
heart
Faking
to be child’s own blending
Mellows,
Yet
set to be brown.
The
fertile waters chirp through the wind
Soften
the ear melt the pride of the crown.
*Imagenie – A
word that is left to be interpreted by readers
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