storiesofmigrant

Patio

As I sit tired on the dilapidated patio of my thought
On a fickle chair of an unsteady , rickety, memory,
Feet tired after a long trudge through the forest,
Darkened by shadows that mercilessly haunt,
Where wind chimes sound like storms on my fragile heart,
As they hit the tall, erect trees that shriek, then retreat,
None by my side, except you in my fear cluttered mind.
Then-
The sunlight then warms my benumbed to contemplate,
Touch with crimson rays on the windowsill of my naiveté,
Nudging through fences now bending in shadows stretched,
Bubbles now pale white, transverse, bright and indigo red,
Energized leaves streaming green, voltaic, photosynthesized,
Lilac, violet, spectral colors imaging your lofty reflect,
Spectral hues of my hope in a meditative riot.

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