mysoultheunderground

The sound of tires on rain-soaked road Suggests a day of hot tea And pensive laziness; Of blankets And vivid recollections. For me, rain is a muted pattering On leaves outside my window. For the birds, it is singing Invigorated pleasure While shaking out their feathers. The wind is electrified as life and sound Relax into a repetitive murmur. I relapse into thoughts about you. The space between us seems to yawn As time slows And divides our worlds apart. You are as far away as yesterday. I am a messenger from your tomorrow, Here to assure you That your sun will rise. Connected only by sincerities And furtive promises,

They speak in winding labyrinths And words that hang like clouds, As their minds grow pregnant with raw And smoke-stained visions. Veins of thought, poignant or agitated, Gleam like unused blades. A dialect saved for secrets; A shifting reflection Of their perception; And lying somewhere between the first and last line, The dirtiest miner finds a stone; Some eyes stutter and fall behind. The thinkers solve for x and watch The vine uncoil and flourish, Collecting shy and coloured buds That peak out behind the leaves; Each one a word submitting to gravity; Each one a word and A piece of the reflection; Each piece a flicker o

GREEN VELVET Mossy stones, cold and damp under my curious feet, creeping and disillusioned; Steamy dew-drops lacing leaves of emerald; wings weighed down and trembling; A carpet of golden leaves, dead and brittle, breathing up under my feet; the smell of green wavers round my ankles; The woods breathe me in and out, and the evidence of rain disappears under the layer of Autumn that smothers the ground.