Tangerine nights

The image melting into mirror, the doe eyes gaze like the lone drop of dew
of night,
silhouettes, chasing, panting, claiming at the top of their voices, there are shadows now,
drawing eyes,
red rooms and films in repose, of more orange shadows than silhouettes, moonlit
till the curtains and applause,
And outside, a lone leaf has grown on the bare tree to the song of the sparrows, hears the wails from the window, of shadows captive,
dug away from the girl in the orange scarf, taken, shaken and strung

broken echoes of these thinning walls,each have names, rhyming with the sound of silence, comfortable
and listless in wait,
of a time when birds circle, in and out of clouds, and cobblestone coffee mug
shuns all souls and indifference of the street,

The matchsticks speak, of the daydreams and landscapes only words could paint,
a smoke ring cirles the fly and a blue neon halo beckons the photographer again,

An orange shadow of windowpanes and cars, flailing specks of mud, imprisoned in the picture,
the girl’s almond eyes gape at the shutter through her tangerine scarf,
the shadow stolen, and the clock still ticks unevenly same, a dungeon of dreams draped in a red room
awaiting paper notes and plastic smiles,

The silhouettes all agthered, leaving their swords and words behind, and gently crept walls

The pictures had dried and the amber sun ambling in the horizon shone in unison of joy, as the shadows flew back to the toes and kissed her almond eyes, the blue neon shadow was already drying,
in a dungeon of dreams, draped in a red room
awaiting paper notes and plastic smiles,

cellar door scar

cellar door scar
A night, weighed down into existing,
by hazel clouds without tears,
turning the moon into a nail-clipping at their behest,
There, the illumine finger of the night,
moon-drop engaged shining ring finger,
the sun lay beneath the hazel cloud asleep,
the cushion of oceans abound,
yet the rising was in the wake, a sleepless pair
of eyes reddened in fraught remedy for life,
It was only the taste of ink, thrown into the sun’s mouth
by the frayed-coat poet as the fountain of his pen
flailed, impotent and frowning at the brightening sky.
The smell of an old yellow crackling notebook then,
And he remembered to look down
The boy’s eyes told stories undone and unheard.
The sun, looking through lashes and bleary eyes saw the scar
under the belly of his hazel cloud,
and then the one torn into the asphalt below.
The poet escaped to his cellar door, leaving another scar through
his frayed coat, leaving time alone on driftwood,
yet the poem was now a wondrous spider spilled like ink on paper
no longer crackling but faking apart.
The boy’s eyes still shone and the poet was proud of his scar, looking through same lashes and bleary eyes that the sun did.