On a dark magenta evening
I could see bright ochre leaves
Falling wearily on to a willing ground
Awaiting one final embrace
From those
Who had once moved up
In search of life
Outside a lemon yellow shoot
That eventually turned
A dull dreary brown
With all this tired living.
If I could do a Neruda, You would have smelt of summer roses And Autumn pine. There would have been sheer love Of the kind that causes our hearts to ache And loneliness bordering the divine. You would have had so many secrets Welling up as in a girly giggle And so few friends who would hear them all. I am no Neruda I can't paint you a Summer breeze Amidst this long winter chill.
This is the way of life and death... there is beauty in both... xox
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