A Patchwork of Evening Fancies

>Straws glued together green,
brushing against cracked soles.
Slithering steps winding along
jungles of ants and rats.

Dried blossoms a few amongst
a field of yellow daffodils.
The scent spreads across excess
of flesh desired, and allowed.

Sixteen pale stars across a red sky,
Silver fern rising from beryl earth,
dancing violently on tender wrists,
pausing to sleep at the neck of a ring.

Lights changed colors, predictably.
Relief and rush mingled and crashed.
She blushed, glowed and sighed
and an eight rolled down with a click.

He chanced a hasty glance at the mirror,
catching an elusive whiff of tobacco.
Streets crossed, lanes changed by turn,
the coin given away by his time.

Scaling a dusty hundred and five steps,
crossed the bridge of no streetlamps.
A minute late and fifteen strides away, only.
But the books had already gone to sleep.

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Spill

This is just to say,
that we may now do away
with the trouble of niceties.
Incapacity and a lessened
share of fancy shall suffice.

This is also to remind,
that we may now do away
with bothering about time.
Age and a book full of faces
shall let it pass unseen.

This is now to conclude,
that we have fully done away
with reality without the eye.
Hope and a few old spirits
shall keep us from bellyache.