April, May, June

Darling, darling.
You spend your nights comparing
and your mornings idealizing,
Don’t you see the minutes in the trash
and the hours extending their hands?
How foolish they are, banalities
coloured by insecurities and self.
How foolish you are.

The rain reminds me of the
uncompromising nature of the
life outside of me, and
inspires me to think of such
forth within.

It is the gift of a coming of season,
a release from stagnant commonality;
the night’s darkness folds with
the becoming dew and the breeze
of nostalgia, evaporative clouds.

Here I am conflicted over
the capabilities of my inked consciousness.
It is thick with depth, but does
it soak my mind or my emptiness?

However, the buried presents
mattered fully during its time, and
perhaps consciousness measured
afterwards is a strict violation
of living.

The clouds hang of light veils
Above the industrial train
And understated trees.

The sun’s light peaks in strands,
on the road and in the air
Breathing and dimming at once.

The chaotic world is the peaceful world:
opaque clouds, hard rain, double rainbow
Indeed it is, abundantly, a beautiful time to be awake.

Three hours before midnight
on a fresh June day is the
brightest time of the season.

The light dancing on my
dusty window also showers
the ripe forestry.

How delicious for the sun
to be so vibrant as
many are tucked to sleep.

The last children playing add
peace over chaos,
sweet shrills bouncing on roofs.

What separates me from total sun
is the bug net on my bedroom window
and my unnegotiable mortality.

The chamomile tea warmed my throat
with guidance,
perfect benevolent partner to
my book with spine and paper brown pages.

A queerly delicious silence washed
over the whole of my body after
this coffeehouse engagement. A silence
of repose, fulfillment, and
unusual clear-headedness.

A little urban morning.


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