Quiet
quiet,
rustling leaves.
Not a sound but of breeze.
Cool and decent,
a bit mere cloudy.
Such a fine day to portray.
Chance of rain,
not so likely, yet not so far.
A bird flutters by.
Lone his soul, of which and where, do the others flow?
Reaching on high he does yet fly.
Completing my serene.
a perfect time, so sublime.
This day I rest here,
waiting in the silence.
None of thought to bear my mind.
Left here quite and kind.
Sound and profound.
Like a peaceful wake, in no bitter sake.
Quiet
quiet.
A slight melancholy so forth kindles me.
A second breath to be-face me.
Yet now confounded in thought.
This beautiful scene, of which I've beseemed.
Melts away, down forgotten.
Re-emitting from severed soil.
Spread through mind of toil.
Of which we long,
a bittersweet Nemo.
Spiral waterfall,
twisted and devout.
Like a formless painting of
blues, purples,
hues and dews.
A darkened stained face
to cloud and shroud you.
Of an earlier day,
struck down away.
Oh, though I think too hard.
Fettered away on this downward spiral.
Lost sight of what I admire.
Such a perfect and sound day.
Lest we not wait.
Keep it here to stay.
On this day,
time is but an afterthought.
And so too are that which I
beseech.