Pink with her hair long with her stare, walking up the stairs fluttering her arms so nimble for happy jeers; long legs down the corridor she did find her locket she lost days before, time; opening it up her heartbeat so sudden that the locket closed itself like a clam shy from the heat of her bosom; what lay inside only she would know putting it around her neck to the softness of her chest for the clam to know, that she means no harm for she is pink calm and happy to share herself with it for as long as she thinks. Pink.
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James Green
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HOMME
The palace in the far distance, not all that it seemed, confused that gold lies within, yet salt of the wounds bend the perception of the man that ventured forth to find a treasure for keeps; Je Suis, man. The nerves, Homme, of a mind blind with the radiance of one who lost the sense to smell, regained parts to patterns to gain more than what was believed to dwell, far beyond comprehension but nonetheless far from hell; Vers des jours Meilleurs, man, and for the man of tomorrow yet to come, and the man yet to meet, may I greet thee with a tip of the hat not a bite in the teeth.
By James Green2 years ago in Poets
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