#049

“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
me,
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

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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…

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