“Quixotic” –
I explain to slants of sunset.

Blackbirds are home,
littering a decoupage sky:
berry-lush pouts evoking
illicit love.

Does it matter anymore, my
wanting to draw prisms out of window squares,
and peninsular umbra, or
the like?

Toadstools are dead –
mortified by equinoxes upon fences that outline
and  you.

The past was a lie…

We have ceased to be what we were –
playmates of immature loyalty,
vulnerability, and
innocent affection.

She stares, her feline eyes
a cultivated cold. I find
my favorite tree without leaves, and

acorns are out of season.

©Mohana Das


6 thoughts on “#049

  1. really like the end, the favorite tree yet the acorns are out of season and it has no more seeds to plant…really nice symbolism as well in things like the blackbirds….the eqinoxes on fences outlining us….interesting…

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s