Wilted

Is nature

Of summer’s end

Or bitter truth:

Awaits renewal.

Awaits you, ((ti)me)

On the verge of happiness

Afraid to let go

To be embraced-

Rekindled in the present.

First of august

Maroon disc turns

In her signature rythm

Then the one red beam

Cast at beginning sea,

Cliffs and hymns

Shaped by the low caress

Of Marine breeze

And blanket shrouds

Leaving half an orange

In dedication

To the departed soul

And the romantic tropes

Sweet juice

As malleable souls yearn

A citrus touch

A quiet, reassuring pathway to righteousness

Fool’s identity

What more could one need

Then to possess exactly all the muscle

To smile,

Avoid injury

So let’s idle

And admire

Higher still, now yellow

As if direction could be paint

On the ever shifting canvas

And the motion of -gratitude

Nears us

Bigger than the sea

-Americans call ‘ocean’

Too much noise will never be enough

Because

Escalation doesn’t account as collateral

Like when

Eyes cry together, helpless

No available solitude left.

Not a poised entertainer

At the restaurant

Lost threads

Then silence.

The situation, a construction site

Blueprints even

Ambition to avoid

The right cue

‘Aid me’ is too vectorial

Unboxing piety’s rigor

Where I was duped

At the shore of

The same river twice

Where quest requires

Prefrontal endeavors

Like holding your breath

When you dive to the treasure

So to high-cut filter the noise

Smothered in hopes’ rumble