Mistaking the breeze of the leaves to the tides of the seas,
He’s hushed here.
A sighed distinguished design of a fellow,
with yellow ambrosia socks on and the back of his shoes erode the man-made fibres;
with each forward he makes.
This isn’t a sickness he wants to fry up and grease his tapestry with,
a stranger in a strange land.
No utopia gardens,
no patterns for security –
only his weaponry egomania.
He takes the hit and
drops to his knees,
like the disposal of meat fractured hearts.
A riddled infected cycle,
where the earth recycles the burning leaves of yesterday.
They want the best for him,
they want him at his ripest moment.
And the solstace screamed the chinese whisper,
“Nothing to deflect? Nothing to forget? Do you have anything to confess, or anything to regret?”

© Thelma Von Salem @
Image – Pinterest

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