Painted Room, Something Wrong.

After rain, through unfolding glow, the unbridled essence
Of sidled clouds, streets meet rational incoherence
This obtrusive glance, what may not be, hence
Green evenings make larger arcs into the fence.

Forlorn looks breaking down the erudite,
Rallying between the rhetoric and prescribed,
This cession of knowledge, all we bequeath
Ricochet, this tarmac of becoming grief.

Grim eyes chastening the already been,
Sans the sentences that create a scene;
Vignettes spread o'er shades of malevolence,
New autumn nears with a naissant spell.

Let little pieces reign over those toys,
In voices that barely resemble their echo;
Stifle through the week with little hope,
A city whose nadir is that it does not snow

Contrasting shadows that slip into coldness,
Heavy and gathered around this parallel abyss;
Rue the ruins that built the spark which charred,
One foot small, a few more, a little too far.

Contained in the laughter the pervades,
Humor regaining consciousness o'er regard,
Melting stares which rue rain with fixation,
Literature is poetry without connotations.

Declining, resigned still to the inflictor within,
Movement spells reveal, why should thy complain;
Hast you ever , you might have been the known,
Reign o'er memories that speak archaic in vain.

Gently caressing through gloss, encroaching dew,
The ability to become aught, ignorance speaks true;
Blankets left by the wayside, linen still unwashed,
A visible aureole, no intrusion shalt be marred.

Starched in structures, spanning all momentary disdain,
Eclectic themes rummaging peculiar, favorably prosaic;
Anguish makes favor, brackets nixed what we proclaim,
Life support, hands cut twice, this cynical display.

A paper plane from the dustbin, an idea lost,
Lapses in memory; bickering over thoughtless talks.

One stops, assuming the other needs to speak,
This is how it has been, week after week after...