Hazel Eyes
Breathless air hung curdled in sparse trees
eavesdropping playfully
mystically concocting a fragrance
so fair so eligible
to fly without wings
playfully tickling the nerves
of those who lack romantic stimulation.
His hazel eyes did slide a bold, smooth ride about her waist and beyond
horizons that lifted and broke their puddled silence.
Each word a rock in which he spoke
heavy and boulderous, beautiful and gray.
Anticipation fondles her curious tongue lubricating quickly,
the nerves which quake and surrender to suffocation.
Such confinement renders speech to whither as the glassical dome
holds hearts hostage, cuffing their eyes and hands,
refusing to appease the morning dew which begins to sound:
dripping, dropping.
Descending into the hazel night,
one last face they see they feel: the moon, he’s dying;
he’s smiling.
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