Colours

Somewhen, I became detached.
I remember the colours stroked my skin,
the embers of spring, studded in grassy
green spikes. A flurry of feet. Toes curled.

Kissing coliseums of light; a halo of sky
domed from our feet, pressed out by sun.
Butterflies spitting proverbial hurricanes,
elsewhere.

Underfoot, the haphazard crease of sound;
rustling trees now old leaves. I saw the
squirrels forage in the Autumnal burn.
Smelt the gunpowder bursts, linger.

Somewhen, I became detached;
fled from her sensory clasps, into fire
fed abodes. Snowflakes crisp on my tongue,
however, prize my wondering eyes open. 

The End

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