Arms hold what arms have told.
The shoulders lurch like fashions old,
fathomless knots of opportunity.
As scrambled as worried black eyes…
Wistful roses redden in the wake
where casual cries deem the silence
unjust and imbalanced.
We simply craft the knots like diamonds.
Yes the night is unfolding like whispers
of golden thought, all heralds speak wisely.
But not an earth will sit in seedless furrow.
Not a mote of light to eagerly dream.