Island of the Cotils

The day is late.

Rampant grasses are blown,

By murmuring patois.

Tips of daisies tint pink,

Then curl up like frightened hedgehogs;

They settle themselves for night.

Love this solitary accord:

Wordless moments unrolling by,

Particles of peace.

Meadow of luscious green,

Sliding to luminous orange,

Sinking to lugubrious blue.

Stretch fatigue;

Let it morph into fresh repose.

The grasses gaze upwards

Into peachy clouds;

Dream of flying

Amidst the swallows

With wings of light.

Able and free to forget

That there may be a perimeter to peace.

No; doze

With this soothing aroma welling in any pores of unrest

That may be discomforting.

Fairly arranged is a svelte truce

Between horror and beauty,

Oddly painless in their correlative apathy

For one another.

No; doze.

The End

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