Laced In Mist
Glassy new moon shining, placed with simplicity. Naturally crafting inexperienced sensations,
Delicately drawn across the obscured, cloudy sky. Two shadowed forms spread over the frozen
Tarmac encased by the empty street. Effortless silence drifts above blushed cheeks, concealing
The hysteria in these freshly met souls. An unveiled cog in life’s ever shifting fate clicks, wheeling
A shabby, imperfect Volvo forward into sight. Strewn at their feet a flash of orange peel, chosen
As if aesthetically painted by an artist looking to attract the eye to hidden desire; temptations.
Ah, the fanciful flights of the young. I love it when I’m all caught up in the whirling stormy fortress of unrequited love. Especially when it assists me with scrawling haphazardly over sheets of virgin paper to create something really, very selfish; like a poem. Poems have that wonderful ability to completely capture any sort of audience for just a second, and hour or a lifetime with ease. Our inherent need to know that we are not the only broken-hearted, down-trodden, beautiful mess on this godforsaken planet will let us see parts of us in every-thing-. Ironically, every-one-. Yes, poems are brilliant, sad, awe-inspiring and downright frustrating (when you’re exploring the likes of Wordsworth and Coleridge harping on about ”blended notes” and ‘primrose tufts’ on a very wet Monday morning at school).