Beauties or Beasties

Hyacinth garden

See those old persuasive phosphorus faces that are now in a gray fog.

Destined to fade from art it is their part an invisible need that seems addictive.

Poems on a desk like tall pale green pines.

Some quatrains right on top of forested silhouettes.

The wind’s impish hand moves like a slashing storm.

Blowing away ideas like kisses on the air from former lovers.

Departures to the skies archaic events that remains mysterious.

Icicle words formed in frozen breath.

Not rumored but worn like a wounds to the heart.

After a while, still nameless anonymous forever.

Passions from echoes they are only reprimands.

No one voice alone can dream.

Forget the morning it is not the same.

Unless, very early, in faint pink backgrounds at the first hint of dawn on distant shores.

Only then, when dew begins, to glisten, to dampen, fairy dusted spider webs.

The hymn, of song birds reach for purple laced embroidered clouds.

Feel the textured rays color morning.

East sun shimmers on the sea and peers at the sea gulls flying.

Dreams are just dreams good or bad, beauties or beasties.

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