Foxes,
They run in a whirlwind of dust and pebbles,
Granite and calcite pounding against each-other;
A clattering casualty of cobblestones;
A fleeting glimpse of dancing red.
The echo of dust,
The only promise it had ever been there.
You can never outrun a fox,
And I am left behind.
In this kaleidoscope of green and sunlight
Searching for your elusive red,
Praying, I don’t get used to pain.
How do I walk away-
From the colour of my blood?
The whirlwind is settling slowly,
And as I am veiled,
In this silent curtain of dust, I wonder-
How the best conversations with you;
Are the ones I’ve had inside my head.
Granite and calcite,
Dust and pebbles-
You are red, you are blood-
Why am I just an afterthought?
When you chase a fox, the forest warns-
You might get used to pain,
You might get used to pain.
YOU ARE READING
Sunshine, Autumn Witches & Other Lies
PoetryA collection of poems that have whatsoever no connection to what I'm feeling but nevertheless has been written. You know, because if I have to be sad might as well make it aesthetic.
