Turning roads. Wet streets.
The late afternoon golden reflects here.
It's cold but I let the windows roll down, so my hair lets the swirling winds dance with it.
...to the music I listen to by the same female singer, they told me to stop listening to.
Speak to me, "Queen Of Hills."
There's an echoing among the deodar trees.
"Poet boy turns this pain into poetry."
Turning roads. Roadside wild flowers.
Allow me to love me as I love the moon.
Can this boy be pretty, please?
Dissapointing son sitting on the passenger seat, found a similarity in these turning roads.
Turning thoughts. Music drops.
I play scenarios in my head.
The poems I could write about car rides down the boulevard to the village I don't love to go to, (I only tolerate)
but I never do, never do, I never do.
The yellow butterflies are trying to catch my trail.
The sun and the white clouds above me play hide and seek.
I think my stars just aligned;
because in this moment I feel pretty.
So I wrote about it.
YOU ARE READING
Ethereal
PoetryEthereal is a poetry book. It is a poet's benevolent prattle about growing up, attaining maturity, embracing delicacy, moving on and it's what you find when you finish walking on your path of self discovery...for now.
