It’s the summer months really,
that showers you in spirited grief.
Dry after wet.
If time stretched it would be
The vacant paradox.
It would fall into place.
Checker boarded with the
stray pieces of
still sprawled out in pursuit of race,
fading away in the
Dew perpetuates after day because of such regulations you feel
sipping a tall glass of lemon-ice
Those wedding pictures you taste are littered with
those ever-ominous placid mannequins
still holding to the frailty of the past and
that morsel more of hair.
You feel the change after sameness,
But do you feel the sameness after change?
And that sun collapsing through center stage is still breathing,
as cotton coloured beach towels are slung over like flagship banners,
gaily sailing over the Caspian sea.
Fresh air fragrance spills over your shoulder
at the pull of a tide-
the weight of the moon still churning in its infinite task.
And you begin that restless urge to move for reasons similar
to blood pooling in the lower half
of your leg.
For reasons similar to how grass sways in an
unbridled motion between your feet.
For reasons similar to how graveyards give their
For reasons similar to how August Weather has