We’re just two lovers sitting in the park,
Waiting for the end of the world.
We do not rush-
No, instead we linger,
In earthy stillness,
Just to see if love never truly ends.
We watch the grass dance with bumble bees,
And the wind play with shadows;
All is quiet, until I lean over and whisper in my lover’s ear:
‘Bury me beneath that tree.
The one covered in green, green ivy’
That way it’s roots can fill my veins
And I, too, will become overgrown,
Filling in the lonely parts of us.
My heart will swell with rainwater,
And my soul can drink in the wind.
Leaves are plucked
And sown like dust, light and free,
The colour of cinnamon,
Hazel and cherry,
Sprinkled were the water laps,
Smooth and blue,
Against the setting sun.
A sky aflame, bloodshot,
Clouds blushing scarlet overhead,
Dyeing the island and its long, lost city,
The colour of wine.
His hair grows fierce like the sun;
Fallen leaves press upon his skin
Turning pale like the sand.
I feel absent from myself-
As is a writer’s nature
To live under the illusion of solitude,
Being overly attracted to words,
And believing in the necessity of art.
They fall like snowflakes,
Droplets of pure starlight.
Porcelain skin, precious souls,
Drowning in demons
In the form of dried leaves.