Sapphire

Sun has gone crimson
and sycamores have stopped to burn
Sycamores, tossing in glee;
hundreds of trees,
thousand years old,
straddle the road.
Road that I racing west,
Driving against memories.
Memories, swaying like breeze,
collide my car, vintage sapphire.
The way never slithers and swirls,
it just goes straight, under
the yellow velvet of quintuplets;
when sun is to be set,
and clouds seeming to be
six months pregnant.
Flurrying to my fuzz,
leaves, with yellow hue,
say that I have some dues;
to the faded pages, worn-out cover,
to the stolen raisins, to the seventeen,
to my dreams and to my nightmare,
to the wind of western sapphire.