A Weird Little Poem

Emeralds to the most of olive forest greens. Gruff in the mountains

chiseled on the edges of a sculpted slope. A curve that can 

kiss a softness into a red burning mess. The smirk that

has a layered meaning but still can be gentle and concerning.

A grasp that lingers. One that softly caresses and still

squeezes in the right areas. A finger that creates a slow 

breeze across parched cold lands. One digit slighted but

gentle enough to be crooked for a tiny promise held, heard.

And in these moments I sigh just thinking about the warmth

of what can be only knowing as a blanket. The weight, the 

materials that keep the mind in a cocoon and only sleep

finds a way to seep into the crevices. 

As the speckled flakes of petals dance across a snowy

covered land, the mind finds one tiny inhale. A hiss.

One that is full of lava and thunder but only is 

creased for milliseconds. An arch is formed from 

these and the fiery strands of a willow finds

its home here. 

These hazy blue orbs in the sky linger in the

sultry of night. Clearing a path that connects

to the olive mist. Tender but scraping. Roaring

like the river but through and around the 

smooth ivory stones. 

A silence that could cut glass. And yet dynamite

was what fell into the rythym. A sway that

is meticulous to fault but failing through the 

execution. No softness. All about 

a wall that needs protecting and a land

that needs exploration.

That is the contentment I have felt.

So say what you will. Say what you want

but know this, it is just a poem of 

wilderness and passionate views. 

For a short moment one may glimpse of 

tangled masses but it is just a stanza of 

lines which can mean only one or two

things. 

A poem of friendships.