Oh the swaying bundles and tucked clothes,
Wrapped in a whirl of sounds and hushes.
How the arms emerge with selfish solicit,
Binding a room, and a mind full of lushes.
The carriage slid with a thud crackle,
As your hips jump down with a wreath.
The halt preserves an ending of voyage,
Where your limbs wear out to reach hearth.
A bench across the path, softer than wood,
Made of steel, cold and dusty of early spring,
Seemed collosal, if not next to wrecked,
Hence bounded to be sat on to think.
A mild September wind that drills in ear,
And work shoes you wear to dready places,
Matched the rust on cuts of the bench,
Brown, hazal and black-tipped laces.
The green lush surrounds the Park of Mindless,
With your desolated throne idle at core,
Filled with new buds of life sowned fresh,
Unaware of mindless people's lore.
To think how squirrels dig ground and forget,
How their treasure,as once, is yet gone.
And as those buds rose with glittering leaves,
Held soft later by the arms thereon.
How they must get bundled with clothes tucked,
Wrapped cozy with sounds of hushing tales,
Swaying cradle at night with sleepy minds,
Rumming rose fragrance that smells frail.
Need not to reminisce what's a faint past,
For it spills milk on your polyester shirt.
Need not to be spoiled over loss comfort,
For it spills mind over your blank verse.
Did birds always chirp the same,
Or ever do you see they change as grown?
For beaks that pecked your windows once,
Sing now ballads above your steel throne.
To swing once more in that arm's sleep,
While mother's roaming the room in glare,
Oh what would we not give for it,
To be the children of arms again?
As the scarlet sun sets sail abound,
And the night prevails around the corner,
All the buds now head down to their home,
And you to your shallow chamber.
The steel throne seems tired as well,
For it reminisce it's past shine.
Rugged marks of faded colours with rust,
The settling age is its only crime.
To rather run seamless, far away,
And feel the touch of a beloved retained,
Oh what would I not give for it,
To be the children of arms again?
To strip away these clothes of gloom afar,
And to wear cotton, or soft silk attained,
Oh what would I not give for it,
To be the children of arms again?
To lie soft and proof a lighter sleep,
While selfish solicit hands pat with fain,
Oh what would I not give for it,
To be the children of arms again?
YOU ARE READING
A Quarrel in the Brain Park
Thơ caJust some poems I wrote, at different points of my life. Hope you relate to them at some point. Also to remember, it's a collection of poems so there are many genres. See if you'll like either of them.
