Finding With a New Home

Rustic island clouds the breath of my thoughts,
And winter’s silhouette lies there – a little beyond my tongue,
Where the lounging meadows by white are softly-coated,
And treetops are rumbled by a second touch.
This is the home I have known: it calls me back with sighs for words,
Yet, my imagination lingers on;
My little island must be burst by the pretentious call of travel.
The silicon of my exterior
Is moulded, wrecked by day’s aeon emission;
Whilst my landscape falls to salt-painted tears,
Is embraced by a penitential night.
Between my eyes, I prance on pictorial decisions;
I carve and create the lines within the landscape,
Yet, they are the first to be burnt away by utter change.
This blanket solace of a world I knew is
Ruptured by a sunlight
Slicing savage fingers through my hair, my crumbled clothes –
Even my malleable interior, once poised to receive every answer relating me to home.
This rustic island crowds the breathing of my thoughts,
And summer’s dance protrudes and grasps;
I am a slave to perpetual enigmatism – wherefrom? Trees answer not.
The breeze extends his fingers, ravishes my mind for petty visions,
Replaces his heart before I would blink away the fog,
He leaves my fragmented pictures
Halved. That is the way I know it:
Home dances where our clouds are.

The End

6 comments about this poem Feed