Our November.

A thousand tree tops,
Undulated in the crisp,
November wind.
Like old,
flaccid paintbrushes,
They briskly painted,
The crimson sky,
To a beautiful blue.


You sat across from me,
Twitching your lips,
Wiping your brow,
Cringing your eyes,
Gulping your words.
Like an infant waiting,
To be fed with words,
For a cue.


I smiled,
Ruffled your hair,
Patted your jowls,
And drew patterns,
Of sundry sweet-nothings,
On the clear sky.

Firefly.

I am the hot firefly,
From the summer long gone,
That you had once caught,
And have now bottled up,
In your stinking ‘Old monk’


 I light up the gloomy attic,
That houses your lost ecstasy,
From the heart that raced,
But is reduced to a kernel,
So passive and lonely.


 I crouch over my dim bottom,
To feel the waning strength,
Of my light, and the room,
In which you languish, pallid,
Insipid yet mulling.

...


 You move to the window,
And see the likes of me,
Gliding over a narrow stream,
Under the willow.
Glimmering grains of light.


 You return and shatter,
The dim bottle.
Stare at the shards and stutter.
I let out my burning light,
Once and for all.